


The only absolution

by PoisonedPrada



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Inspired by The Devil Wears Prada, Mirandy Bingo, Mirandy Week, Mirandy Year of Fun & Frolics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 33
Words: 69,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedPrada/pseuds/PoisonedPrada
Summary: An world famous fashion editor and a new assistant would always be cliche for a romance, but this isn't any romance. Their differences pull them in polar opposites. Miranda the powerful editor is reluctant to love again, it would disrupt her whole existence can Andrea change her life? And if she does is it enough? Their fates have been decided long ago as they will find out.





	1. Paris 1979 ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sous le ciel de Paris  
> Marchent des amoureux  
> Hum hum  
> Leur bonheur se construit  
> Sur un air fait pour eux

Religion is often said to be consolation of the poor. In this case religion or at least the shell of where it was once practiced is the stage of the rich. A background to one of the first Paris Week fashion shows. Every year the fashion houses fight to see who is more innovative, more creative, more stylish, who will outdo the other one. This year Chanel has decided to use an old church, with vaulted ceilings and stained - glass windows. In the second row a young woman sits attentively watching the models sashay down the catwalk. She has honey colored eyes and hair to match, as if she had been dipped in clover honey at birth and the remnants were in her eyes and in her hair. She was fair enough but not beautiful, in her early thirties she ensued class and elegance.

Perhaps it was the light from the windows rich in color and warmth that caught the eye of a young accessories editor sitting a few rows from her. This was the second fashion week for the editor, her short tenure at Harpers Bazar had swiftly landed her here, perseverance, focus and talent had made her at 20 the youngest editor of the staff. Today, however she could not concentrate. The woman made of honey kept catching her eye, calling her attention. She told herself it was the off season floral dress she was wearing and the way the older man kept writing something on a pad that made her laugh. She looked down at her notes, a few scribbles and some critiques. The collection was lackluster, she had seen the designs over and over in her short career. Dramatic curves and monochrome colors was all that Chanel was putting out this season. Dark color for fall? Ground breaking. The fashions house matriarch had passed eight years ago and Chanel had lost for a second it’s focus. The editor was sure they would find it again but this was not the year for that. Suddenly the show was over, the last design came out onto the stage but she missed it. She missed it because for a brief second the woman in the floral dress had met her gaze. It was as if they both knew each other but they didn’t. She turned to look up the catwalk, it would be unforgivable if she did not at least see the ending article.  
When she looked back at the spot where the woman had been, she was gone.

The editor shook her head as if wanting to clear the thoughts that permeated. She had a strange feeling of having met this woman, her breath caught. She compared it to seeing an old friend after years. The few hours between the show and what would be the after party passed in a haze. She changed into a night dress, a one-piece midnight blue designed by Carolina Herrera and applied some makeup. If she was honest to herself she did not want to attend the gala, they always made her nervous. Stars and designers critical of editors and journalists. It was as if they were second class citizens in a fashion utopia. She bee lined for the champagne table, she attended because she had to. Networking was the only way up and she wanted up. She wanted so high that it would be hard to see the floor, she wanted top floor, corner office, city view kind of up. She smiled to herself and as she did so a singsong voice infiltrated her thoughts.  
“You’re here,” the voice said. The editor turned softly only to be met with the woman she had been thinking about for the last few hours. The floral dress was gone, and changed into a black cocktail dress. It shimmered and shone when the woman moved.  
“I saw you at the show, you’re a journalist?” the woman asked.  
“An editor,” she answers. The editor too has pale skin and blond her, only hers is almost white, her eyes are like the ocean when it freezes over at night and her smile calculating.  
“Harpers right?”  
The editor nods again.  
“I’m Patricia Ellis the older woman says, “and you?”  
“Miranda, Miranda Priestly,” the novate editor answers.  
“How do you know I work for the magazine?”  
“I just know,” she answers and smiles handing her a new glass of champagne to replace the new one that Miranda has consumed.  
“What did you think of the collection?”  
“It had some highlights,” she answers because she can’t tell a stranger that the collection was a flop. Maybe she would write that, she would say the collection was lackluster and that one could not describe it without an insult.  
She thinks back to Chanel’s comeback in the 60’s, to the bad press from the French only to be a smashing success in America. Maybe this would be the same, maybe it was time for a reversal.  
“That is a very diplomatic way to say it was horrible,” Patrice says.  
“Now you are putting words in my mouth,” Miranda argues.  
“Just words for now,” the older woman answers.  
“What?”  
“Nothing, my parents are having a dinner tomorrow why don’t you come? They always host one during Paris Week, it’s a big event not connected to the industry but quite fashionable.”  
Miranda nods, “I will check my schedule. She is going to go, she already knows that. She can’t simply accept it would make her seem desperate. She will go because this woman seems important or well- connected at least. This industry is all about who you know and finally because she is curious. She wants to know what this woman wants.  
“Great,” Patrice says handing her a card with her name and phone.  
“First why don’t I take you out for a real Parisian drink?” she smiles benevolently to Miranda.  
The smile implies that it will be trouble. That I may be those types of drinks that leave a nasty headache and a hangover, Miranda doesn’t really drink. She doesn’t go to those parties where everyone gets wasted and ends up on floors. She is measured and career driven and the youngest editor in the staff.  
“Okay,” Miranda agrees because she wants to have some fun. She is only 20 after all.  
They pull up into a blue Rolls Royce, Patrice coils her hair into a fast up-do.  
“So, Miranda do you have a lot of boyfriends in New York?”  
“I … no… there is no time for that,” Miranda stutters. This woman makes her nervous, she can’t pinpoint why.  
“I find that hard to believe, you’re beautiful,” Patrice compliments as she smiles across the fine leather seats of the Rolls Royce.  
The younger editor flushes and turns away, she turns to look out onto the Parisian streets, the streets that have witnesses love stories, wars, crimes, history we only read about. They have seen Chanel become famous, Edith Piaf sing onto the night and dreams being made. The Eiffel tower twinkles in the autumn night.  
“We are here,” Patrice announces as the pull up to a small unassuming bar. This looks like trouble and for once Miranda does not care. She does not care that she is overdressed for the bar, that none of the patrons will probably be able to afford their dresses, she does not care that shots are poured or that the next morning she barely makes it to the Calvin Klein show.  
In fact that week she barely makes it to the Balenciaga show, the Ecole the Design show and then she misses Prada. Prada! How can she miss Prada? That’s right Patrice had taken her out every night. First the gala that her parents hosted, then dinner at the Eiffel Tower and last night was a hidden café. It had the best beef burginion. The food had been great but it was perhaps what had happened after that prevented her from sleep. It was the strangest sensation to feel complete intoxication and be completely sober.  
Patrice was fun and charming but she was more than that. She was someone Miranda wanted to be with all the time, she could not explain the feeling. Was it friendship? No, she had that before. Was I admiration? Not love? One could not fall in love over the course of four days.  
“I like you Miranda,” Patrice mentions casually over coffee as head out onto the cold night. The café was hidden down the Latin Quarter, one of the old places where war spies used to gather.  
“I am glad … I suppose?”  
Patrice laughs. It’s beautiful it pours freely over the table. It pours like wine over a glass. That is how Patrice does everything effortlessly. Miranda has learned that Patrice is the fourth child of a silk empire magnate. The line of succession however is not kind to her. While she is the only daughter and gets the spoils of her father, she is the youngest superseded by three men who will fight for the company.  
“I can’t fight them,” she had said. Instead Patrice had decided to go her own way. She had studied law at Harvard and had finished her graduate degree in Paris. She had lived in Paris for most of her twenties. Here she was safe and free. While her father paid her rent, she paid everything else herself.  
“I don’t think you understand,” she explains as her laugher dies. Her hand reaches across to trace the contour of the editor’s face.  
“I want to take you to bed,” she says as if she were saying that it was about to rain. She drops the words so casually that if you didn’t know what they meant you could think she was offering to drop her off at home.  
Miranda coughs and her heart beats. The words bounce and rattle in her head. She can’t answer that, not tonight. Her breath shortens as if she had just ran from the Arc to Notre Dame.

“I will think about it,” she answers. She thinks about it all night. She stays awake in the center of her hotel bed, burn orange covers half way to her body. Her black silk pajamas feel cool against the heat that comes from her body. Her short hair is wet from a shower. She wants to approach this like she approaches everything, with a list. A list of pros and cons. She can’t do that. It would not be fitting. She can say that she feels something different for Patrice, but it can’t be love. Patrice is a woman. She knows that the excuse doesn’t hold up. Miranda has never been one to believe in social convention and gender roles. She doesn’t believe it but she doesn’t want to test the limits of society either. It is a problem full of complex answers that won’t satisfy the gossip columns. Sleep finally catches up with her and despite her best efforts she falls asleep and misses the show. She chastises herself for doing it. Not more than her editor. She sits there in the aftermath of the show and listens to her boss as he rants about missing a show, trust and how she has to find a way to make it up now.  
“Do women always fall asleep?” he asks the air more than Miranda.  
She shakes her head, “It won’t ever happen again.”  
“Damn right it won’t. You won’t be here if it ever does,” he concludes and walks off.  
She calls Patrice that night.  
“What are we doing?” she asks the honey colored blond as she answers.  
There is a pause.  
“Everything alright?” she asks. Confusion seems to color her voice as if Miranda had no clue what she was taking about.  
“What are we doing? You and me?” she asks.  
If feels like a conversation she should be having after months not after five days in Paris. She should not be having this conversation in her drab hotel room, with burnt orange covers and Formica tables.  
“Having fun?” the older woman answers after a beat, “I hope.”  
“Is that it?” Miranda asks and she feels so foolish. She’s not the heartbreaker type. There’s been a few men here and there during school but after high school she started working for Harpers and left all the love idiosyncrasies aside. She felt so out of place.  
“I don’t know what you mean,” Patrice whispers. “I’m engaged Miranda, I am set to marry as soon as I get back to Rhode Island. Next week.”  
Her tone got quieter and quieter as she spoke. Miranda considers hanging up the phone.  
“Why this then?” she asks because she is not one to keep questions to herself.  
“I thought maybe. It sounds silly but maybe you could make me not marry.”  
The explanation is strange. Miranda hangs up the phone. She is so upset at this woman. She can’t believe that she would say something so stupid. She is upset at Patrice, but most of all she is upset at herself.  
“One more day,” she tells herself.  
Patrice knocks at her door a few hours later. It’s almost 11 at night. Miranda opens the door and finds the older woman standing there. The energy and smile for the previous days is gone, this woman is standing there in beige slacks and Burberry trench-coat tied at the waist. Her hands are deep in the pockets, her hair sleeked back in a low ponytail. She’s wearing glasses and a bare face. Miranda feels the whole image tug at her soul.  
“what do you want?” she asks.  
“Do you want to take a walk with me. We’ll get coffee.”  
Miranda agrees, she drapes her black coat over the velour dress she has on and follows Patrice. They walk in silence for a few minutes. The silence is comforting. It drapes against the black and grey of the Parisian night. The stale air of a coming storm looks around them and the wet smell of moisture permeates the air. They make it to a coffee shop two blocks from the hotel and exchange the Paris air for fresh roasted coffee.  
Patrice buys two classic coffees. A few francs to toss into a lifetime conversation.  
“I could love you,” Patrice smiles and sips the coffee.  
“But you won’t?” Miranda smiles back. It is as if a long time couple was breaking up.  
“I do love him. I just don’t love him as he wants.”  
“I hope you do at some point,” Miranda states honestly. She does. She likes Patrice. She can see the traits of duty on her face already. She has to marry, she has to fill her family’s expectations. She has to be a good wife and a good mother. Miranda believes Patrice will be both. She can see the wear that being an heir to something has. You inherit money and wealth along with a set of unbeknown obligations. This man, whoever he was, was one of them.  
“I could not face …” Patrice stops.  
Miranda understands completely. “I know.”  
She does, she knows. She isn’t sure if she would have had the strength either. She wanted to be the next grand designer or editor. Falling in love with a woman and putting all she was in jeopardy, well that was not part of her master plan. This was all for the better.  



	2. New York 2006

They were running a story on her. Runway was running a story on their own editor. How the world was changing. People wanted to know the people behind the scenes, behind the models and the designers and the expensive shows. Miranda had agreed. She was regretting it now. She was looking down at the set of questions she had requested be sent before the interview. 

“What was your biggest failure?” 

Miranda did not often think about the past. She did not wallow in it and wonder how things may have been. It wasn’t who she was. The past was simply part of the fabric upon which her life was weaved but it did not determine where she was going. Miranda never thought about Patrice after the first year. She had allowed herself to mourn the loss of what never was. She had cried that week in Paris. She had cried a lot. Tears had welled in the blue of her eyes and she had asked herself if this is what she wanted. She saw in Patrice a little bit of herself. The obligations, the sacrifices, the hurt that would bring her success. She could not have it all. Women simply did not have it all. Was being famous and rich as important to her as finding love?  
She had come out with the conclusion that love was a weakness. She lost a promotion that year. Missing a Prada show during fashion week for a first -year editor does not bode well with management. She lost the chance to get ahead for love. For the semblance of love. For the giddy feeling of being liked and admired. What had she gained? Nothing.  
If she was to answer that question honestly, she would say her biggest failure was falling in love. That year had been her biggest failure. 

The next question would have the same answer. 

“What was your biggest success?”

Getting her heart broken. That had pushed her to where she was. She had never fallen in love after that. Everything was a simple transaction.  
She writes neither. She tosses the answers aside and gets out as Roy pulls up to the Elias Clarke building. Someone moves out of the elevator for her. She hates being stuck in elevators with people.  
She finds herself interviewing someone for the position of second assistant. Normally she’d let Emily do it, but lately she has been lacking in that department. When the candidate enters Miranda almost wants to laugh. The young woman is dressed in something she has pieced together form a sale bin at Sears perhaps. He hair is in complete disarray and she has no idea what a fashion magazine is.  
“that’s all,” she signals halfway through the interview. She has no time for new college grads who think they own the world for having mom and dad spend a few thousand on them. They think because they sat in lecture halls, pounded a few beers and wrote a few essays they have what it takes to make it anywhere. Miranda always laughs at the notion. She has had to sacrifice her whole life to be where she is at.  
She’s ready to not give this entitled girl the twice over when something unexpected happens. The girl speaks, speaks her mind. She rants about how dedicated she is, how passionate she is and thanks Miranda albeit sarcastically for her time.  
It makes Miranda look up, gives her hope, remind her of herself.  
After that year when she missed a promotion and found out what it was to love and loose, she quit Harpers Bazar. When she quit she told her boss that she was the best talent he had, she was going to be a legend and he would regret passing her up. He laughed. She became that legend and now this young woman was doing the same. She had to hire her.  
Then she doubts her decision when just a few days in Andrea questions the shade of two belts. She has the audacity to make a very unrefined snort as she was trying to decide between two belts with different styles, hues and accents. She questions if maybe she had hoped too much. At that moment Andrea irritates her and the young woman gets schooled about designers, colors and the influence in mainstream life. She gets told by the most influential print editor that even her little bargain sweater was at some point created by a master. Andrea infuriates her at that moment; nevertheless, she is competent, smart and even funny at times. Miranda never lets people know she’s paying attention or that she cares. She learned to hide all her emotions after Patrice, Miranda was a blank page, hard to read, impossible to understand. Despite all that she often paid attention to her staff, what would an editor be if she didn’t have an eye for detail and talent. She saw the talent in them, the complete idolatry and loyalty in Emily. The red-head had been her longest assistant, albeit extremely anxious she was level headed when she needed to be, fashion oriented, competent and she could see her in art or design soon. She also noticed the subtle changes in Andrea, the pair of Jimmy Choo’s, the small dabs of lipstick, the looks to see if Miranda was pleased.  
Miranda was pleased and she began to grow fond of Andrea. The girl was refreshing, running around refraining from questions or comments. She had talent. Miranda had backlogged her articles for the school newspaper at North Western and had been impressed. If Andrea made the year she might offer her something in Editorial. 

“Mirada there are no planes flying out tonight, nothing. I checked with all the airlines,” Andrea had said desperately.  
“Get me out of here! It’s your job,” Miranda had ordered into the phone and hung up. Andrea spent that whole night that was supposed to be reserved for her father in a state of panic and disappointment. She not only might get fired but she was letting Miranda down.  
“What does she want you to do, Call the national guard?” her father had said sarcastically.  
“Can I do that?” Andrea had asked half serious.  
She didn’t of course but she felt confused as to why letting Miranda down meant so much. She was getting a serious case of hero worship. This was dangerous. She did not want to end up being vain and fake like the clackers that stormed the lobby of Elias Clarke every morning. 

“I missed Rachmaninoff,” Miranda had declared in the softest of voices. If you didn’t know her you would think she was telling a nostalgic story. The lower she spoke the more dangerous it was. Miranda knew that there was never a need to scream. People listen to powerful people. That was the rules of the game. Miranda noticed the disappointment in Andrea and after the young woman walked out, she thought that maybe she had been too harsh. She was aware that she often demanded the impossible. She always had hope someone would deliver someday. That was perhaps the reason why Miranda was beyond pleased when she saw Andrea the following day, in Chanel boots, and beautiful streamlined fashion. Her long brown locks had been straightened and her makeup done by someone else no doubt flawless. She was always happy when fashion and style changed someone. She tried not to but a small smile escaped her lips. Andrea was proving to be more and more like her. 

The weeks and months rolled up fast Andrea continued to show up and deliver. She slowly learned to match her outfits without the help of the closet and Miranda could tell she was starting to like the industry. 

In the weeks before Paris fate dealt the young woman another card. Emily got in an accident. The red head could not walk. Miranda tested the extend of Andrea’s loyalty, passion and career drive. She wanted to see if she would turn out be like her. She wanted to see if when faced with a decision that would hurt someone else, she would still pick the best for her career. She had been right again, she picked Paris.  
“This isn’t fair! You eat carbs!” Emily had responded when Andrea told her the news. It had been hard for Andrea the girl from Ohio who oozed Midwest hospitality; However, the city had hardened her, Miranda was right she would need to make these decisions over and over in her career. She would need to skip other, be ahead of others, do what was best for her. Miranda was pleased again. She knew that the world though of her as demanding, unforgiving, hurtful and cruel but she was simply doing her job. She was making sure other women would be tough enough to survive a world that does not coddle you. Having Andrea around did not change Miranda it was having an assistant that cared so deeply about warning her of her own demise that moved her. She remembered what it was like, caring deeply about someone or something. Andrea was loyal, she may not agree with the way Miranda ran the magazine, how the industry satirized life, how it idolized beauty but she cared about Miranda as a human. Andrea had tried to warn Miranda of the fate Miranda already knew. She would have liked to tell Andrea that everything was going to be fine, but it wasn’t going to be. She knew that Andrea would judge what she did to Nigel. She had grown an affinity toward the Art Director, they had become close in the past months. She was right, despite her heart felt discourse and breaking her own rule of explaining her action to a subordinate, Andrea had walked away. It happened in a flicker an instant. Miranda turned in the hoard of paparazzi to realize she was alone. She knew the smile faltered, only for a second but it did it faltered. Nigel came to the rescue, in a moment of irony the man who she had betrayed saved her. He had the sense to pull someone from another department to take over the remaining days. The week had proceeded on as always, Andrea making her childish display had not mattered. She was a fool is she thought she could go over to her newspaper and change the world. Miranda was upset, she was upset that whole week and the weeks after that. She hated to see talent go to waste. That had to be it. She did not miss Andrea, she resented the loss of talent in the industry, nothing more.


	3. Disappointment

“I have an interview at the Mirror today,” Andrea told Nate over coffee and large windows near the city center. He had called after he heard about Paris. She was reluctant to answer at first. What would she say? Should she apologize for having been career driven? Should she have said that he was right, that Miranda was a monster, a villain? Should she say that now in a newspaper everything would be different? She could not do any of those. She wasn’t sorry for being career driven, for liking the industry, why was her job less important than his? Had she not spent hours listening to him talk about potatoes and asparagus? How dare he say fashion was shallow. She didn’t think Miranda was a bitch at all, well sometimes, but mostly she was a woman who demanded the best. She was a career driven woman who no doubt had been overlooked for being a woman. She was simply competent and perfectionist. If she was honest Andrea liked her very much, she admired her resolution, her thick skin, her passion; furthermore, she regretted Paris. She acted childish and unprofessional. The correct thing to do would have been to return to New York finish her two weeks and leave. She didn’t think being a journalist would be less demanding, she didn’t think the hours would be less, she didn’t think she could change the world. Working for Runway had changed her outlook in life, she though that fashion could change the world. It had the power and influence in millions of women and men for the better. 

“That’s good,” he smiled. She still though he was handsome. His deep beautiful eyes smiled with him and she could not help but smile back. His dark hair still hung perfectly in pesky curs around him and the leather jacket he wore made him look a model. She smiled at the fact that she was analyzing his look. She was no longer the Andrea he had fallen in love with. 

“I’m no longer the same girl you fell in love with Nate,” she voices..   
He nodded, reaching out to caress her face, “I know. I was wrong though. I should never have made you feel that your job was less important than me.”   
“How are you?” she asked to change the subject, she had agreed to meet him out of duty.   
“I have an interview in Boston, sous chef,” his enthusiasm is evident.  
“Good!” she exclaims.  
“Who’s going to make Julesburg sandwiches for me?” she asks and she regrets the question. She’s not sure she loves him still. She should. It’s been less than a month. She should love him. She does, she tells herself.   
“I’m sure they have cheese and bread in Boston,” he laughs. Dark lashes cover his off grey eyes.  
“Let’s start over Andy,” he pleads.  
“Andrea,” she corrects him and has no idea why. He smiles and raises an eyebrow.  
It’s funny but he feels jealous of Miranda, of how Andrea has changed because of her. He feels like something was stolen from him, the woman he had loved is now this glamorous woman who wants to be called by her full name. He had been jealous since the day of his birthday. She had missed it because her commitment to work, to the magazine, to Miranda. He supposed this is how the Ice Queen’s husbands felt when she didn’t make it home for a birthday, or a dinner. He supposed this is what it felt to have a successful woman by your side; yet, it was more than that. He had felt jealous of Andrea’s loyalty to the woman who headed it all, felt that with time Andrea had grown to like her, that if left alone Andrea would turn out to be like her.   
“Let’s start over Andrea?” he asks again.  
She nods absentmindedly, “Let’s give it time, mmhh?”   
“Okay,” he answers unsure of where that answer would lead them to. He wasn’t going to give up, he wasn’t going to let her go. He’ll be back, he’ll invite her to Boson. She had to still feel something for him.

The interview at the Mirror is not really an interview it’s a sort of one question inquisition.  
“So… Runway?” the editor asks.   
Andrea nods, she grabs the soft leather satchel she carries and squeezes nervously. She blinks and answers shyly, “I learned a lot.”  
The editor then says the words that Andrea feared, “I asked for references.”  
He asked for references, of course he did. She would never be able to get a job in New York. Maybe nowhere. She should consider going back to law school. It can’t be that bad. 

“I received a fax from Miranda Priestly herself,” he pauses.  
He had been speaking before but Andrea had not heard a single word. She had been worried about how to make a graceful exit and how to call her parent’s and ask for money. They would want her to go to Ohio.   
“She said you were her biggest disappointment and that I was a fool if I didn’t hire you.”

Andrea smiles because she doesn’t know what else to do. She doesn’t know what shocks her more that Miranda in her own way gave her a good recommendation or that she felt incredibly hurt at the fact that Miranda had called her a disappointment. She had known it of course that Miranda would be mad, but disappointed? Disappointed meant she had expected more. Disappointed meant that she had dared to hope, dared to care?   
Andrea finishes the interview rapidly leaving with an offer and the promise of an email for paperwork. She leaves the newspaper office and does the unthinkable.   
She gets home and declines the offer from the Mirror.   
Her fingers hoover over the thank you email where she rescinds the offer. She wasn’t sure what was making her do it; however, she was sure that this would be something else she would regret tomorrow. She was drinking vodka as she pressed send. She sat there mindlessly wondering where to now? What comes after quitting your highly coveted job in fashion and then not taking your dream job in journalism. Was this it? Was this the start of a downward spiral? She would have to call her parent’s. She drank more vodka, with leftover cranberry juice. She drank half the bottle it would all be better if she just kept drinking vodka.

Miranda was completely shocked and annoyed; yet, a smile played out on her lips. Emily watched her carefully from the open glass door to the office. She could not pinpoint Miranda completely, after all this time working for the fashion diva she was still often baffled by her actions. She did however recognize that smile, it meant she was pleased about something no one would guess. It meant that she was surprised and annoyed but in a masochist sort of way. Emily wondered what had required HR to request a meeting. 

Andrea sure had some nerve. She had been right when she hired her, she did remind her a lot of herself. Miranda takes a deep breath and ponders what the next words out of her mouth should say. She had let Andrea go unscathed, she even had handwritten a recommendation. A few weeks after Paris Miranda had stopped being upset and angry. She had no right to and she should not be affected by an assistant. The new Emily was competent enough and had the added bonus of not having to be taught fashion. She had thought about not responding to The Mirror or preventing Andrea to get the job but that would petty. Andrea had been loyal after all, loyal to her about Irv and loyal to her values. She deserved to chase her dreams. She wrote exactly what she felt, that she was disappointed but that Andrea was a great talent.   
Miranda thought that Andrea would soon outgrow the Mirror but it was a good start for her, she hoped that one day she’d see her name across the New York Times or the Washington Post. The thought had made her smile and for once in a long time she had felt human about her employees. Patrice had once told her that she hoped to see her name across the editor page somewhere, she had done it. Though the circumstances were vastly different Miranda hoped to see Andrea’s name on the front page somewhere. She had thought Andrea would be happy; why was she asking for a job with Runway again? And why was Grayson at Vanity Fair calling for a reference? 

Emily hesitantly enters the door as Miranda looks up and away from Randi the head of Human Resources. She purses her lips, “Miranda?”  
“I’ll think about this,” she turs to Randi, “That’s all.”  
He nods and walks off.   
“Emily, tomorrow morning call HR and tell them to go ahead. Then get me the fax for Vanity Fair… that’s all.”


	4. Friday Nights 2007

“I’m not known for giving second chances Andrea,” the famous editrex leaned casually by the door frame of the room Andrea had been led to. She was told she’d be meeting with Mackenzie the editor for that department. Her head was low reading something on the table, she had not seen Miranda breeze in with a silver tinted skirt, a peach flower blouse and a cardigan perched on her shoulders hands outside.  
“If you disappoint me this time,” the sais and their eyes meet for a long second. Andrea wants to say that she has regretted leaving, that she wished she could go back, that she was devastated on disappointing her.  
“If you disappoint me again, I promise you will never be able to write again in all of New York.”  
Andrea is sure she could probably say, you’ll never write again but that was a tad too much.  
Andrea is still sitting on the beige stool, speechless. She had not expected to see Miranda today, she had though that Miranda had maybe shrugged her shoulders at the mention of her ex-assistant and been in a benevolent mood. She was sure she’d see her again at some point, but not today. She had not expected Miranda to come down a floor and meet her.  
“Do I make myself clear?” her silver hair falls down for a moment. Andrea gets the desire to fix it. She nods, “abundantly clear.”  
There are no more words from the editor, she doesn’t end it with a, “good or welcome to the team.” She simply turns away from her ex-assistant and walks away.  
“Andrea?” the secretary calls. We’ll start you next Monday? I’ll have a courier send over the contract prepositions to you.”  
Andrea nods, she’s handed a temporary identification and shooed out the door. More than anything she’d in a daze. It apparently is enough of an interview if you survive Miranda Priestly.  
She walks down to the subway station. She’s half looking at the floor to make sure she doesn’t fall and half going over the last few days of her life. She got the job she wanted, or at least a stepping stone in the right direction. She had quit her toxic boss. She had an opportunity to fix things with Nate. Life was looking up if anyone saw from outside. To her it felt like she was being put in prison, in a neat little package of what life was expected to look like. She was expected to get a job in the discipline she had spent the last years of her life in school for. She was expected to care about looking presentable but not too much, because then you were labeled vain and materialistic. She was expected to be in a stable relationship, eventually marry the man she’s dating and let him be the man of the house. She could be successful but not more than him, not to the point where she has to miss important days, and make him less of a priority. She was feeling a little like Rose in the Titanic. Like Kate in the beginning scenes where she feels like she’s alone in the middle of a crowded room, surrounded by success and luxury but she wants freedom. In an odd sense Runway had given her freedom. She had felt free to be someone different, to be vain and materialistic, to care about her job. She had been free to defy expectations, to tell people exactly what she wanted. She had been free to expect only the best and if not show them the door. She had felt free to travel to be wildly successful is she so wanted. She had felt empowered by all the successful women. She had felt alive. She reaches the metro stairs, slowly she descends the stairs. She buys an onion bagel for old time’s sake and because she hasn’t eaten. She hasn’t eaten in a while, she now realizes. She could be joining Emily’s cheese cube diet now.  
The metro sways and churns, she’s sitting by a young professional. This woman has a casual office attire, a laptop perched on her lap and dark sunglasses. Upon reaching her apartment she ponders calling Doug and telling him to meet her for dinner. She shakes her head and instead opts to call for take-out. She has no energy to explain to him why she’s working for the Ice Queen again. She hasn’t called her parent’s yet. She’s afraid of what they will say. The last two calls have not been great successes and she’s been communicating with her dad through emails. In writing she’s good at sounding sane and her father can’t hear the desperation in her voice.  
When she called from Paris they had been worried but safeguarded in the thought that Andrea was going to look for a ‘real’ job. A job that did not involve running to grab dry cleaning, coffee and making vet appointments. The second call saying she had turned down a journalism position and that she had no intention of looking for another one concerned them more. They had tried to sound non challant but worry colored their voices. She could almost see them, her mother glasses perched on her nose, thin frame, biting the bottom of her lip looking up at her father from the sofa. She could see her father shrugging his broad shoulders, grey hair peeking out, reassuring smile as he continued to talk to his only daughter. Her mother always said she had married her father because his smile always made her believe everything would be fine.  
It must have worked because they had been married ever since.  
She wasn’t ready for them to attack her with questions this time; just as she wasn’t’ ready to face Doug yet. 

Miranda wasn’t sure why she had called Mackenzie to ask what time Andrea was scheduled for an interview, and she wasn’t sure what she would tell her once she found herself walking down to the floor below. Andrea looked just as she had done in Paris. She had on a good ensemble no doubt from Paris. She had curled brown locks and perfectly lined eyes. Miranda had watched for a few seconds, found herself wondering why this assistant was different. Watching Andrea felt like she was watching herself years ago. The young woman with her assured walk, her confident talk, her affinity to do the hardest tasks, felt like someone she wanted to mentor and help in her career. She felt like someone she wanted her daughters to turn out like.  
She had been curt with her ex-assistant. She had made it clear that the expectation was for her never to leave, at least not in similar terms.  
She knew that down in products, she’d barely see the young journalist. She didn’t care, it was good for her to learn her place, to start from scratch. Andrea did not know that had she lasted a few more months, Miranda would have offered her editorial. She would have been in a better position than she was now. It served her well to start from the bottom. She would gain a better appreciation for hard work. She could learn the mechanics of putting a magazine together and not simply staging the ground for it. She wouldn’t tell the brunette all she lost with her little tantrum. No, she would not. Miranda reached her office again after breathlessly leaving Andrea in the tiny office. Maybe she would tell her someday. It would be a good lesson. 

Lancôme Cream for night and Clinique’s new makeup remover were the two products, Andrea got to try that month. The truth is she didn’t really try them, someone else tried them. Someone down in the closet department, they sent her reviews. A few different products made the final cuts, then they choose the one that would appear based on two things. They looked at market trends and the advertisers. It was a hushed secret among the fashion magazines. If you advertise you are keeping the magazine alive. You see the magazine made more money from great advertisers who purchase 6 page spreads in the center. The magazine was expected unofficially to showcase their products in some way or form. Fashion reviews, product reviews, before and after pieces and celebrity interview spreads are some ways that gets to happen.  
Reese Witherspoon wearing Prada or Hillary Clinton wearing Versace are techniques Runway used to showcase the advertises. If you asked the magazines would say it is not true.  
It was fun. Andrea concluded her new job was fun and after two weeks of researching products, writing blurbs and running over to the closet she got to see her name published in the back along with the rest of the staff and contributors. She bought the magazine. She framed the last page in an Ikea frame. She called her parents. Her mother answered. She didn’t say a single thing. She simply heard Andrea out.  
“Why not Vanity?” she asked legitly.  
“I am a mashochits,” Andrea joked.  
Her mother unexpectedly laughs. It sounds completely normal Andrea would not really remember, she never got along with her mother.  
“Oh, Andy we’re here for whatever makes you happy. “  
They help her to pay the rent. Now that Nate is gone and though she makes the same as an assistant paying the bills is hard work. They send her money for three months. Andrea needs to find a better way to make more income but she can’t march up to Miranda’s office and demand a raise. She doubts it works like that anyway. She would have to call corporate. Andrea turns around suddenly one Friday night and realizes that she’s the last one in the office. How did that happen? She’s writing product blurbs! Product blurbs for god’s sake! She should be the first one out. She looks down and realizes the product blurb has morphed into a complete product essay. If she approached Mackenzie about uploading all of it to Runway. Com that was in early stages, she could do longer reviews. She stays awake all night. She shyly approaches the black hair department editor.  
“Go for it!” the slightly older woman smiles enthusiastically.  
“Miranda will love to know you’re stepping outside the box like she wanted. Get together with Michelle she does the makeup and accessories section," Andrea nods, she emails Michelle. She then wonders what Mackenzie meant. What had Miranda said?

“You know, if you had not left in Paris, I was going to give you a chance writing meaningful pieces in Editorial,” Miranda drops randomly on a different Friday night weeks after her piece was posted on Runway.com. Andrea is once again alone in her cubicle. She gets a déjà vu feeling from her days as her assistant. She's completely surprised by the coolness of Miranda's voice. She's in shock that Miranda has once again come down from her altar to talk to the mere mortals. She has no idea what to say. She has no idea what Miranda wants so she plays it cool.  
She nods. “I guess it is a lesson, right?” she nods and turns to look up at the older woman. It’s too late, Miranda has moved over to the side of the desk. She has pulled a chair and dropped unceremoniously two coffees and a crystal container full of sliced apples and chocolate covered bananas.  
“Right,” the fashion diva answers sitting down.  
“Now Andrea, have a snack with me. Are you avoiding home also?”


	5. I owe you

Andrea could laugh out loud right now. In fact, she was. She was laughing out loud in her little apartment she could barely afford. She had been laughing in between serious thoughts for the last hour. She had maintained composure on the offered ride home in a company car, she had maintained composure all the way up the stairs and for the first five minutes while she took her shoes off and poured a glass of wine. Then mild panic had surged as she sat at the kitchen table and stared out into nothing. Miranda Priestly had offered her snacks. Miranda priestly had spoken to her more than a few words, she had sat down and held a whole conversation with her over fruit and herbal tea. Andrea didn’t dare ask why, but she wanted to know. Miranda the woman who she had left in Paris, the woman who was labeled as the biggest bitch in the publishing world, a true dictator of fashion had come down and conversed with her. The conversation had been trivial, the newest Broadway play.  
“They have made that show over five times.”   
Miranda was referring to the phantom of the opera. She was right, Lloyd Webber sure knew how to make a pretty penny.   
“It’s timeless, every generation wants to see it,” Andrea had returned as she reached for a slice of peach.   
“Would you? Like to see it?” Miranda had asked with a slight stutter. 

Andrea had nodded, “Of course.”   
Miranda gave her a half smile and proceeded to say that she liked her product review.   
“My 10 words?” Andrea joked feeling confident but completely shocked still.   
“Don’t be naïve Andrea, the online article,” the older woman quipped.  
“You read it?”  
“I had to see if my ex assistant really was a good writer.”  
“And?”  
“Approved for now,” Miranda states getting up. They had been talking for almost 40 minutes. It was as if they were friends.   
“Goodnight Andrea it’s late, I’ll have one of the company drivers take you.”  
Andrea shakes her head.  
“Miranda I’m sorry…”   
“Don’t… never bring back old mistakes,” the silver haired editor had said and left the floor. Andrea was greeted by a dark blue Volvo and a young man to take her home.  
Andrea wanted to text Miranda, ‘thank you’. She didn’t they were not that type of colleagues, in fact one could argue they were quite the opposite. The days that followed were quiet, they came and went with the same exactitude and routine as they always had. Andrea found herself staying longer hours to complete the same reviews, so much more that her boss let her do two the following week. She kept thinking of an excuse that would take her up to the EIC but there were none. More that anything she wanted to know why, Miranda had deigned to talk to her? Why her? Why? The most likely cause was that Miranda was having a long night, a moment of solitude. Who would be better than her old assistant who was already fairly warned that a mistake would land her homeless in the unfriendly streets of New York City.   
Miranda was in the middle of a divorce and perhaps no one was really suited for talking, but Andrea, well Andrea has seen her cry. The divorce wasn’t as messy or long as the media had prophesied, Stephan had signed promptly and didn’t ask for much. He was in a hurry to free himself from the ice queen and find a warmer bed. Miranda laughed at the notion. She thought it was all a circus. Two weeks after that unexpected night meeting Andrea resolved that she either had imagined it or the dragon was indeed as unpredictable as they said. Then again, her employment there would confirm that. Her articles had been well received her parents had not nagged about how she was doing and Doug had finally returned her call and agreed to dinner. Life was looking up. 

Miranda did very little on whims. She usually had everything planned out, researched, no room for error existed. She still had no idea what motivated her to visit Andrea a month ago. Probably the same strange connection that made her go see her upon her rehire, the same protégé feeling she had felt back before Paris. Was this what finding a successor felt like? Andrea was too young now but surely in a few years she’d be ready. Miranda looked around the office. Massimo had helped design this office. The glass desk positioned to look outside at the setting sun over the skyline. The carefully crafted décor, the books, the art, the photographs. They were all creating the curated illusion of a perfect life. Miranda Priestly who had been catapulted to household name fame in Runway had to live a perfect life. She didn’t drink, didn’t eat junk food, she slept early and woke up early, she had perfect fashion sense… surely her life had to be perfect too.  
“Miranda?” the familiar voice of Andrea rang into the office.  
The editor turned surprised. She had taken her heels momentarily off and the rapid turn did not help the situation. Andrea smiled. She had two cups of Starbucks coffee in her hands.  
“I wanted to return the favor.”  
Miranda doesn’t want to but smiles back, “you didn’t have to.”  
“I owed you,” Andrea starts.  
“Coffee?”   
“No,” the young brunette shakes her head, I owe you for hiring me back, for the letter I am aware how rare something like that is.”  
Miranda has not spoken albeit she has risen to collect her shoes and the coffee. She now stands taller than Andrea in Prada heels and a turquoise wrap blouse.  
“I owe you an apology, for Paris,” she knew the statement would be highly controversial, she knew Miranda could take it either way. She knew that she was crossing her product reviewer job lines.  
“Andrea really, do you think I have time to think about all that?”  
She had been right. Miranda felt all the anger and discomfort of Paris wash over her. She had seen Andrea walk away, in a stupid childish motion.  
“No, of course not.”   
Andrea had planned for this too.   
“But I owe you an apology and a thank you, nonetheless. I know your busy, I’ll let you work.”  
Miranda nods, she thinks she nods. In reality, she watches the young woman walk away, the young Andrea is growing up.


	6. A year after Paris

She had never been the type to cultivate friendships. They took time, were vulnerable and rarely valuable. She had friends like one has spare tires for a car, in the back of her mind and used only on rare occasions. They weren’t really friends, they were more of colleagues she had a rare affinity to. People that she appreciated enough to invite over for a holiday party, enough to remember that they had two daughters or liked baskets of fruits. That was the extent of her friends. She didn’t really need them. People did what she asked regardless and her two daughters were enough. She was never disappointed if one such ‘friend’ stopped calling, if they could not attend a holiday party or if she didn’t see them often. Why then did the image of a pleasant conversation with Andrea keep coming back? Why was it alluring? She could not understand it. Andrea was not like anyone else in her circle, she wasn’t rich or famous or well connected. Miranda had nothing to gain. She paused in the rich mahogany of the studio wall. She had the book in one hand and a cup of coffee on the other. She was dressed in tailored slacks, and a loose cashmere cardigan. This was her relaxed look, after work at home. The thought that struck her was philosophical in aspect. She had to pause, her blue eyes gazed over to the corner seat but she made no movement to advance.  
Perhaps it was precisely that, perhaps it was because Andrea was so unlikely anyone else. Her Ohio honesty that must come along with the vast fields of soy and corn and the slow days of that state. She had gone once, to do an interview. She could not remember what the article was for but she remembered the hot, humid suffocating summer heat. She remembered the midday rains, loud and thundering only to be over a few minutes after they started. She remembered the crawl of cars on the big broad highways. They moved slow and silent not because there was a lot of traffic like New York but because they had no hurry. The languid fields, the large homes with well manicured lawns and the sense of community gave the residents the calm that is often spoken of in farmlands. Miranda can’t deny she liked it, she never told anyone, but she liked it.  
She thinks about it all night, friendship. This divorce has been hard on her. It was more publicized that before and thought Stephan put not resistance in monetary allegations, it had worn her down. Seeing the twins feel disappointed at another loss, seeing her name be blasted over Page Six, it was such a circus. Andrea had an unfettered opinion, she was completely different from her friends that came from the best echelons of society.  
She realized that almost a year had passed from the moment Andrea left Paris. She understood that it had been months since Andrea had offered her awkward and ill-received apology. She knows that her actions are fuel to the fire of her unpredictability myth. She knows all that but she doesn’t care. It’s two days before Christmas, she’s about to leave and Andrea is standing alone by the bar at the Elias Clarke holiday gala.  
“Where is your date for the night?” Mirada asks forgoing a formal hello.  
Andrea had seen her approach and had been caught between the desire to turn and walk away or wait for the editor to come closer and panic. Instead she smiles back and shrugs.  
“My friend Doug had to back out last minute.”  
“I feel like you should make your boyfriend come,” Mirada continues as if she has talked to Andrea every day for a long time. One could almost deduct from the way Miranda is talking and standing that they did braid each-other’s hair and gossip.  
“I don’t have one,” Andrea spits out.  
Miranda turns and gives her former assistant a quizzical look.  
She’s wearing a very red Chanel Lipstick and her gown Elie Saab is off the shoulder black satin.  
Andrea smiles again at the beat of silence that palms them both.  
“I remember you talking about him?”  
“We broke up before Paris,” Andrea offers.  
A waiter offers Miranda a glass of champagne she shakes her head.  
“I didn’t know,” Miranda turns to Andrea who has also declined the glass in question.  
“I haven’t exactly seen you lately,” Andrea pauses at the words that have tumbled out. They sound reproachful and harsh. Miranda has arched an eyebrow but said nothing.  
“To um talk, like that… well don’t talk like that,” she finishes.  
Somewhere in that conversation, Andrea realized that she wanted Miranda to keep asking, she wanted Miranda to keep talking, to stay by her. It was the strangest sensation and her heart was pounding in her chest. It was beating against the flesh in her thoracic cavity, she could feel it. The moment of revelation was surreal. She was falling in love with Miranda. She didn’t want to answer her stupid question about Nate, she wanted so bad to lean over and kiss her. Her delectable red lips, she wanted to hug her and inhale the smell of Chanel. Holy shit, maybe she already was in love, she had been for who knows how long. This was insanity.  
“Andrea?”  
Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted by Miranda touching her forearm.  
Andrea doesn’t answer because she has no idea what the older woman has said.  
Miranda deduces that the writer has lost her focus and repeats herself without a sarcastic quip.  
“I’m having an intimate party, a few colleagues, your welcomed to come. We can converse then.”  
Andrea nods wide eyed. Why was Miranda inviting her to a holiday party, a private holiday party?  
“If you have something planned you are under no…”  
“I’d love to,” Andrea responds at which Miranda drops something about 8:30 and a casual attire as she waves to Ryan Veneer, the editor of Politico Elias-Clark’s premier political publication, and leaves.  
Andrea doesn’t know what to do with the impromptu discovery. She fidgets with her clutch and contemplates calling Doug but hangs up. She can’t tell anyone. If she keeps it silent it won’t be real. Miranda is an illusion. Why had she agreed to a holiday party with the Ice Queen. The same woman who had pretty much ignored her after an amenable talk. If anyone found out about Andrea’s feeling she would be the laughing stock. Who the fuck falls in love with Miranda Priestly?

Andrea goes to bed with the hope that this strange feeling disappears. It doesn’t. She wakes up still in love with her former, older, rich boss. A slow dread enters her system, she sits in bed with a cup of instant coffee and a million cursing thoughts. None of them make sense, they are in no particular order and she flows in and out of concentration. For moments she thinks about Miranda, about what Miranda would think if she knew. She thinks about why she broke up with Nate, she broke up because of Miranda. She traces back her feelings for the silver haired editor and all the pieces click, like connecting dots to a Clue game. Who fell in love with Miranda and where? At other times she stares at her Snoopy pajamas and picks at the edge of her blue fuzzy socks. 

Knocking at the townhouse was nerve wracking. Was she dressed correctly in black high waisted pants and a pearl bow blouse?  
Miranda herself answers the door. Her smile notes that Andrea is dressed well and she steps aside to let her guest inside.  
“Andrea, you’re early,” the older editor whispers in her usual airy tone.  
“You said 8:30, it’s 8:15,” Andrea states, she’s about to add you are always early when the fashion diva beats her.  
“This isn’t work Andrea I won’t fire you if you’re late, everyone is usually late to this. Do you mind helping me with the wine?”  
It isn’t until then that Andrea realizes there are only 10 placemats at the table. The twins are huddled in the corner with another preteen girl and Miranda hands her a bottle.  
“We can sit and chat,” the editor suggests and they do.  
They sit down at the outer edge stools in the breakfast bar. Miranda nurses her glass, in fact she takes only a few sips.  
“Have you always not been a drinker?” Andrea asks.  
Miranda shakes her head very softly. “I used to, and I do on… occasions.”  
Andrea nods. The conversation flows again, just like it did that night at the office. The only difference is that they laugh more, and the talk circles about the divorce and the holidays.  
“You aren’t flying home?” Miranda asks.  
Andrea shakes her head, “No, I haven’t been home for the holidays in a long time.”  
Miranda raises her head and thinks about what to say next, “do you miss your family?”  
Andrea mimics Miranda, the same raising of the head, “not really. We don’t have the best relationship. Going away to college was a way to get away from them.”  
Miranda cracks a smile, “I understand. Coming to New York from England was the same for me.”  
“Miranda I …” Andrea is about to say something. She’s not sure what it was because James Corden walks in and hugs Miranda lightly, “darling merry Christmas!”  
Miranda smiles at him, “James you made it, I thought I was going to have to freeze your food like last time.”  
“Never, again!” he replies in his south English accent and behind him a few more luminaries walk in. Andrea finds that although the number of guests is small, they consume Miranda’s attention for most of the night. She’s glad. Those minutes when it was just the two of them were stressful and if she had been left alone longer she’s not sure how absurd she would have sounded. The twins talk to her here and there but for the most part she spends the evening in the kitchen chatting with Cara and Roy.  
She slips out halfway through the evening. She doesn’t want to overstay her welcome and she feels completely out of place. She doesn’t hear from Miranda that evening. She was right, Miranda would not notice the absence of her ex-assistant.


	7. New Year's Eve

Five days went by, five whole days in which Andrea’s feelings ran and scrambled over themselves like servers at a restaurant during peak hour. Everything was so new and fresh that she had to keep herself from going up to the top floor and telling Miranda how beautiful she thought she was. She was painfully aware of the implausibility of a relationship with Miranda, or even a semblance of it. She had no idea why she even felt this way. Miranda had certainly never fomented such a feeling, she had never given her special treatment, much less made her feel like she liked her back. Andrea could only deduce that it sprang from three things; how beautiful and commanding she though Miranda was, her profound admiration for her and that time in Paris when she had honestly seen Miranda cry. It had stirred something in her, something that was already there. She came to the conclusion that walking away in Paris had been her subconscious shutting down the feelings. It knew better, these feelings that were breaking her apart and confusing her beyond no bounds. She didn’t know what to make of it. The lack of communication from Miranda gave her peace of mind. If she didn’t talk to her again, if she only had to cross her path a few times a year for the magazine and a Runway gala she could pretend that she did not lose her breath when the silver haired diva walked by.  
She had sent Miranda a thank you email for inviting her to the party. She had wished the older woman and her family happy holidays and she had received silence in return.  
I was now the 28th of December and Andrea was sitting at her desk staring mindlessly at the blank screen of her computer.  
She had three more hours until she was free to go home, though the hours were not enforced that much as long as the job got done. She looked down at her Prada flats that had cost her more than half her salary the first month. She stared at them long and hard, page six used to call Miranda ‘the Prada wearing devil’. That was why Prada was Andrea’s favorite brand, she though Miranda was the pure personification of what beauty, glamour and power looked like. During the last few days she had been at odds with herself, she wanted Miranda to be her friend. She certainly saw the possibility of it, she wanted to be close to the famous woman. She wanted to know about her life, her past, her family. It sounded silly but she felt like she has never loved anyone like she loves Miranda. She has considered that it could be a power crush, the typical assistant or student relationship with the older and powerful boss or professor. She was taken and smitten by the way Miranda smiled, the way she talked, the way she looked across the room with her perfect blue diamond eyes and the ways they sparkled when she spoke. She was enraptured by her and the could qualify as a power crush, but she was also enamored. She loved the quiet vulnerability Miranda had, the way she tried to hide the real her in order to not get hurt. She could see in those impromptu conversations the woman behind the ice Queen persona. It was silly but she could imagine a lazy morning on the porch as they watched grandkids play. That could only be love, unrequited love no doubt, but love still.  
She was in the middle of one of those thoughts when a young breathless and confused woman stopped at her desk.  
“Andrea?” the blond said.  
Andrea nodded, “this is for you. I forgot about it yesterday. Miranda asked today. Can you please not tell her I forgot?” the young woman spoke so fast and with so much feat that Andrea only nodded.  
Then just as fast as she had appeared she left, Miranda newest assistant.  
The envelope that the young assistant had left on the desk was an elegant shade of gold, it had Andrea’s name handwritten on the front and the inside was simple a square piece of stock paper. It was heavy and expensive and if you looked under the computer lamp it shone a little.

“Andrea would you care to join me for New Year’s Eve?”

The sentence was written plainly across the cardstock, it wasn’t clear what this was. There was no time, no address, no RSVP number. 

Andrea flipped it over and stared at it for a few minutes. Had she missed something? She pulled out her phone and with the utmost hesitation texted the editor.  
She hadn’t used her number in a year. The last text was something about Paris week.

‘Miranda, I think the RSVP paper to the invitation is missing,” she writes. It feels so awkward, so out of place. It feels like she’s taking attributions that should not be made, like she has shown up at a party overdressed and with no time to change.  
The reply she gets in a few seconds surprises her.

‘About 9pm, the townhouse,’

Andrea stares once again. Someone yells across the cubicles to Jessica about page 102, Mirna replies, “I am sending it now.” A second text from Miranda follows the commotion.

‘Bring a nice festive dress.’

Miranda is assuming Andrea is going. Shit. She has to go now. She struggles the other part of her wants to never see Miranda again, she wants to forget the way her heart beats with the smell of Chanel no. 5, the way she mushes words together and the indecent thoughts. She wants to forget the visions that run though her mind of Miranda and her, in bed, naked.

‘Okay,’ she replies because what else is there to do. One does not simply say no to the most famous fashion editor in the world. 

She has to beg Nigel to help her find a dress, he is not very amicable to start.  
“I can’t believe you fucking walked away in Paris,” he says as he combs the pages of the book.  
“Nigel that was a year ago,” Andrea says hoping he’ll help her, she had been pleading for twenty minutes.  
“Exactly and you never called, not even having been back for more than eight months."  
“I’m sorry.”  
“A shiny dress, you want?”  
Andrea nods.  
“It’s going to cost you,” he says seriously.  
“I don’t have money.”  
He waves his hand dangerously close to the way Miranda waves hers. “I don’t mean money. What do you need it for?”  
“A date,” she stammers.  
“A date on New Year’s Eve?” he smiles.  
“who?” he wants to know finally getting up which lead Andrea to believe he will help.  
“You don’t know them,” Andrea lies.  
“Okay, I’ll help you, but you have to tell me how the hell you got an invitation to Miranda’s holiday party.”  
He had been dying to know. Of course, he had.  
“you know?”  
“Darling all of fucking Runway knows,” he waves again and lead the way to the closet.

He doesn’t push when she tells him her version, “Miranda saw me alone, I think maybe I moved her? Maybe she wanted a charity case at the dinner party.”  
Nigel nods, he does not believe the young doe eyed brunette. He doesn’t believe her but has no other explanation. Miranda, the unpredictable Dragon Lady strikes again. 

Andrea takes a taxi to Miranda’s home. Miranda does not offer a pickup, does not confirm the time and when Andrea rings the bell a few minutes after 9 she thinks maybe she got the day wrong. The area around the house is dark, there is no one going in or out. There are no visible signs of a valet to park the car like there usually is when Miranda hosts a soiree. There is no music, no lights coming from the window. In fact, it seems like there is no one home. She panics, she is standing there in her knee length silver Miu Miu and no response. She wonders if ringing again is too much, what if Miranda is home in her pajamas. What if this was all a prank? She rings again. After another two or three minutes, there is noise behind the door. Andrea panics, she’s almost sure she’s going to get the cops called on. Instead Cara opens the door and smiles benevolently.  
“Ms. Sachs, Miranda is not ready yet, come inside,” the lady is already walking away as she leaves Andrea standing at the door.  
Andrea follows a little dumfounded and confused.  
“Would you like something to drink?” the maid offers. She turns around to realize that Andrea in her daze has left the door open, she rushes to close it.  
“Wine?” she answers and Cara nods. Andrea looks around the house, it’s just like she remembers from the holiday party a few days ago. The Christmas tree is lit and the lights chase each other in endless circles. There is a fireplace roaring in the foyer and the everything looks elegant and festive at the same time. Andrea wonders in Miranda herself decorates it or if she has an overpriced decorator do it for her.  
“I’m I early?” she asks, she now has followed the dark- haired woman into the kitchen. She sees a few dishes covered but nothing that will feed more than four people.  
“Dinner should be around 10,” Cara offers and props a wine bottle on the counter.  
Andrea can’t understand the label and it makes her head spin, just like this confusing silence and the lack of guest.  
“I mean … are the other guests arriving later?”  
“There are no other guests,” comes the cool and collected whisper that can never be mistaken.  
Miranda walks in as Andrea turns rapidly, faster than usual, fast enough to get whiplash.  
“Good evening Andrea,” the editor says as the fabric of her palazzo swooshes by. The bottom is black and airy while the top is gold fading into silvered grey. Miranda looks breathtaking as always. She notices the smile on her hosts face as she looks at the dress.  
“Miu Miu?” is the question.  
Andrea nods, she’s still shocked. How the hell is she supposed to carry a whole night with Miranda. What will they talk about? How did Miranda even think this was a good idea and better yet, why her?  
“Prada is one of my favorite designers,” Miranda whispers and Cara hands her a glass of wine.  
She hands Andrea a glass too, “Do you have whiskey? I think I need something stronger,” Andrea says and Cara not looking surprised at all walks away briskly nodding.  
“Are you alright?” Miranda asks taking a few steps toward the exit of the kitchen.  
The whiskey arrives, in a cut crystal tumbler.  
Andrea takes a deep breath, “I feel a little in shock that there are no more guests.”  
There it was blunt and frank. Miranda nods, “I usually spend New Year’s Eve alone, the twins go to their father’s home and I hate going out to galas. I thought that since you left so early maybe mingling with strangers wasn’t your scene, dinner and a watching the fireworks from the balcony seemed like a good idea."  
“Why your ex-assistant that left you in Paris?”  
Miranda shakes her head, “should we walk over to the living room?”  
Andrea nods, holiday music hums along now and Cara has disappeared.  
“You have to stop saying that at some point. I thought you wanted to be friends?” Miranda drops like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She drops sentences like that all the time.  
“You want to be my friend? You know I am just a lowly product review writer, right?” Andrea smiles to signify that she’s joking at which Miranda laughs.  
“Perhaps that’s why, you’re real,” the way she says it is not a joke. There it is the vulnerability that Andrea loves. She stares at the bright eyes looking at her. When they are both in heels Andrea is a slightly taller than her boss. Miranda is very close, arm length’s close. She so close Andrea wants to wrap her arms around her.  
“What do you want to be Andrea?” Miranda asks looking away overwhelmed by the intensity of Andrea’s gaze. She could not place what it was, the way the young woman looked at her would have anyone believe that she found her attractive. That was an illogical though. Why has she asked Andrea over, did she really want to befriend her? Why? Miranda could have gone to dinner with a million other acquaintances, she could have gone to her brother’s state, she could have spent the night alone like she did every year. What was it about the big brown eyes that moved her. She wanted to get to know her, she had this feeling that they could be friends. That Andrea could make her remember who she used to be before fame and fortune came dashing at the door. She could see summer nights on the porch and loud hearty laughs over wine. At least that was what Miranda thought friendship could be, would be?  
“I want to be a writer Miranda, I want to write a story, someone’s story,” she paused.  
“Why did you come back to Runway?” the fashion editor was genuinely interested.  
Andrea wanted to blurt out, ‘because of you.’ Instead she said, “because it changed my life, fashion, the magazine… you changed my life.”  
Miranda laughed softly, there was amusement dancing in her eyes and the soft laugh lines formed at the edge of her mouth. Andrea stared and retuned the smile.  
“Did I? More than learning how to get coffee?”  
Andrea nods, “Maybe one day I’ll write about how it all changed my life.”  
Miranda sits down at the couch and stares at the fireplace, “yes, you should. That would be a great idea. You should write about the magazine, all good reviews of course.”  
Andrea joins the older woman on the couch, the whiskey has relaxed her for a second, she could feel the warmth of the brown liquid cursing through her blood. She felt dizzy maybe she should have eaten before the alcohol, maybe it was having Miranda so close.  
“I should write about you,” she whispers. She is so close that she could kiss her, she can hear the hitches of her breath. Miranda feels dangerously reckless, she’s never noticed just how beautiful Andrea she is.  
“Dinner is ready Miranda would you like to dine now?” Cara asks and Miranda gets up faster than Andrea has ever seen her move. It was slightly undignified and it startles Andrea for a second.  
“Yes, let’s dine now. “


	8. Off-Broadway

“Why is it that you spend New Year’s eve all alone?” Andrea asked curiosity sparkling in her eyes. The first course was served by Cara, it was as elaborate and as beautiful as if they were dining at the best restaurant in new York city.   
Miranda looks across the table to her dinner companion, the lights are dim but not too much, the festive music has crescendo into the dining room and the candles flicker slightly at the movement of the maid. The house is immaculate perfection as if had sprang to life from the pages of coastal living or New York life magazine. It had high a beautiful chandelier that hung from the impossible high vaulted ceiling, the dining room in dark cherry matched the accents of brass perfectly. The hardwood floors melded into marble in the kitchen and wood again. The living room they had just left with its soft grey couches and love seats that Andrea had seen as an assistant many times seemed different now, the glass coffee table held a messy collection of photography magazines that was arranged each morning to look like someone had really been looking at them. There was a large family portrait of Miranda and the twins in what looked like those expensive studios, their hair and make-up was perfect. It was stark in black and white, like it belonged in a modeling add. Miranda was leaning against a wall in white slacks and a black blouse and the twins younger and smaller relaxed against her legs. It was beautiful as it was cold.   
“Well the twins go to their father’s house, and well I have spent them alone since I got a divorce from their father. Stephan always wanted to go to a restaurant or a gala or another tiring soiree. I have enough of those all year,” Miranda says in complete honesty and Andrea can’t get used to the way her boss differs in real life.   
“I would have imagined you had all the invitations in the world,” the young brunette says.  
Miranda slowly smiles, her eyes mirror Andrea’s sparkles and her lips curve like a cat about to pull a joke. She gets up slightly and pulls a drawer from the cabinet with the big brass loops that sits behind the table.  
“I do,” she puts at least a dozen invitations on the table. “Those are just the pretty ones.”  
They are various invitations from fashion designers, investors, celebrities, newspapers and the like. They all invite her to share the night with them, some as friends, patron, guest of honor, etc.  
Andrea smiles, “I would go to all of them.”  
Miranda shakes her head, “It’s tiring Andrea, all I want to do is sit here and watch the clock change into another year.”  
“I’m I interrupting your routine? “  
Miranda now biting her traditional Waldorf salad nods, “you are.” The words come passively and decisive. Andrea doesn’t miss a beat.  
“It’s a good interruption,” Miranda adds.  
“Why did you leave Stephan?”   
Emily’s voice of, “you may never ask Miranda something,” rang in the back of her head as warning bells. She had to remind herself she was not here as an assistant but as … as something else.  
Miranda’s first emotion was to feel annoyed.   
“What kind of stupid conversation is this?” she asked herself quietly.  
She was about to say something that would definitely cut the evening short but then she looked over at Andrea at the genuine expression in her face, she just wanted to know about her. She wasn’t going to sell the information to page six, she wasn’t asking like hungry journalists do, she was simply trying to keep a conversation going.   
“Because he was an absolute fucking jerk,” she sates and Andrea smiles. She’s never heard Miranda cuss, she didn’t even think of the dignified queen of fashion knew a cuss word. My the, world was indeed full of surprises.   
“I see the look in your face Andrea, did you think I was to proper to cuss?” Miranda asks smiling.  
Andrea nods, “sort of.”  
“Discovering the icon part one,” Miranda starts and Andrea laughs snorting slightly.  
“Okay no more wine for you,” Andrea jokes.  
“I haven’t had more than a few sips, I think you meant to say no more wine for you,” Miranda corrects.  
She is probably right, Andrea has consumed more than two glasses and the whiskey while Miranda still has the same glass of wine Cara opened for them. Dinner advances slowly after that. Andrea tells Miranda about Runway’s lower level and narrates every pitiful office drama. Miranda pays attention she loves it, and in turn Miranda interjects here and there about when she was a lowly accessories editor at Harpers.  
At some point after eclairs for dessert Miranda looks at her watch and gasps.  
It’s ten minutes until the New Year let’s go out to the. Balcony this is my favorite part.  
It was beautiful, the lights that strung around New York. The big city, the great apple, the Rome of our times. Holidays in New York were a mix of the beautiful lights that already existed and the holidays lights that appear everywhere. Rockefeller center with the enormous tree, Times Square and the ball, Broadway, Manhattan, it was all a living piece of art. The view from the balcony was simple. Miranda handed Andrea a glass of Veuve Cliquot and to her immense surprise urged Cara to come join her.  
“Cara,” she had said in the same sing song she used to call Andrea, “the fireworks are about to start.”  
Cara appeared with a simple shawl over her shoulders and a glass of champagne like they had been doing it for a long time. They probably had, Andrea deduced. The fireworks started bursts of color searing through the night sky. It was beautiful, grandiose. The fireworks that were reflected in the blue of Miranda’s eyes. Cara didn’t say a word but she could tell in that single instant standing with them on the balcony, Andrea did not look up at the sky, she looked at Miranda. Miranda didn’t notice Andrea’s clear devotion and Andrea didn’t notice Cara’s knowing look.   
“happy new year,” Miranda whispered to her former assistant and then to Cara. She hugged them both. Andrea could not remember ever hugging her, it was addicting. She wanted a million New Years. 

The following week Andrea and Miranda did not talk again. Andrea could not expect this to be a normal friendship. They were not college buddies texting after class. Miranda was a world class editor, running a million-dollar company and trying to raise two girls. Andrea didn’t know what she was allowed to do. What were the boundaries of said friendship that Miranda wanted. She didn’t know if she was allowed to tell anyone, she didn’t know if she could invite her in return. She didn’t know and then she didn’t care. She would invite her anyway and if that was the goodbye point then it was. She walked up to the top floor, with a pile of folder and the stares of the two assistants manning the desks outside the office.  
“Bloody hell,” Emily whispers.  
“I just need to drop this, from Michael,” she lies. Michael is the photography editor. He frequently sends people up when he has questions. Andrea knows this. Emily knows this. She gets a clean pass.  
“Andrea,” Miranda hesitates as if she has been caught cheating.   
“Miranda I …”  
“What’s in the folders?” she asks. She takes off her glasses as she often does and looks at Andrea.   
“Nothing, … well black pages. I just wanted to come up to see you,” it sounds so completely foolish now. It sounds like something a high school crush would say. Andrea chastises herself for thinking this was remotely sane.   
“you could have just called,” Miranda throws out casually, “or come up and said you wanted to see me.”  
Her words fall out like coming up to see the Devil was the most natural thing in the world.  
“I wasn’t sure… anyway. I wanted to invite you to a show, a play, off-Broadway. You’ve invited me twice I had to return the favor.”  
She swallows hard, she can see Miranda processing what has just been said.  
“When?” she asks her eyes softening yet inquisitive.  
“um… Friday.”  
Miranda plays with a large gold necklace that dangles over her black knee length dress.   
“Okay,” she takes a deep breath. This makes her incredibly uncomfortable. She hasn’t accepted an invitation to simply go out and have fun in a long time. She never goes out if it isn’t for work or work-related events. This feels so nerve wracking.  
“Great,” Andrea states, “I’ll … um… send over the details.”  
“Okay,” again the great editor has no words, no snarky comments. Must be a middle age crisis Miranda thinks to herself. Why else would she be intent on making this strange friendship work?  
“Andrea?” she calls after the younger woman, Andrea turns.   
“leave the folders,” she instructs. Andrea leaves the folders full of black page and wanders out of the office completely shocked. What the hell had just happened. She had asked Miranda Priestly out on a girl’s night for all intent and purposes.   
Miranda showed up in a lavender Zap Posen blouse and dark pants. It’s as casual as Andrea has ever seen Miranda.  
“I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to dress, or … I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to meet you here or pick you up,” the fashion editor looks so confused and sounds so unassertive. Andrea can’t phantom the idea that a simple outing to a show makes her so different.   
Andrea wants to joke about Miranda picking her up for a date, but she doesn’t.   
“I’m bad at friendships,” Miranda says at the end of the play, “I have no idea what that play was about.”  
Andrea laughs endearingly, “I don’t either. A friend of mine writes for this theater company. It’s progressive…” she explains.  
Miranda nods, “it had great clothes though.”  
Of course, she would say something like that.  
“I would not be upset if you dropped me off at home?” Andrea drops casually. They skip dinner, it wasn’t’ part of the invitation and Andrea does not want to push her winning streak.  
She does however want to spend more time in the simple vicinity of Miranda. This can’t be healthy. Andrea wishes she had never found her own feelings. Now she wishes that Nate’s words would be true, that Miranda and her would truly be happy together.   
“Of course,” Miranda answers and Roy is confused by the simple answer his boss gives.   
The ride is very silent, Miranda seems tired.  
“You are very quiet today,” Andrea observes.  
“Mmmmhhh, Caroline told me she wants to go live with her grandmother. She says that I don’t care enough about them, that for me work is the most important thing.”  
Andrea purses her lips, “they are kids Miranda. Where is her grandmother?”  
“My mother? She’s in London. My mother lives in London, the one I have tried to not talk to for the past 20 years of my life. That one.”  
Miranda seems upset and if Andrea is not mistaken she can almost hear the onset of tears.  
“Why?”  
Miranda turns sharply as they arrive at the edge of Andrea’s duplex.   
“Why don’t I talk to my mother?” Miranda asks.  
Andrea nods, perhaps it was too many questions. She really needs to keep her mouth shut.  
“When I left Harpers she told me I would never amount to a thing. She said the reason why I had left was stupid. She wasn’t an understanding woman and I didn’t want her in my life. I visit my father at times, before he passed away.”  
“I don’t understand …”  
“I don’t want to talk about it Andrea, I have to either acquiesce and send my daughter to London or deal with her hating me.”  
‘Caroline does not hate you, she loves you and that is why she wants to spend time with you.”  
“I avoid being home most of the time,” Miranda confesses as Andrea gets out of the car.  
“Don’t.” Andrea suggests.  
Miranda understands, “she wants to say she knows but instead she presses the button for the window to go up and whispers, “goodnight Andrea.”


	9. Fridays nights 2008

Andrea watches Miranda’s window roll before she can say a word. She watches the editor wave a dismissive hand at her as if she had just asked her to fetch coffee and drive off into the lit New York darkness. Andrea is not one to get angry fast. She can stand a lot, she’ll get annoyed, she’ll complain, but to truly feel anger … that takes a lot. Apparently, it took Miranda Priestly to dismiss her. She felt the blur of tears in her eyes, tears of anger that stung. Why could that woman not be polite? She struggled over the weekend not to call Miranda, not to tell her that she can’t just use people when she pleases, that she understands busy, she understands rescheduling, she understands privacy, she understands motherhood, she understands it all except rudeness. She controls herself and does not call only to come into work Monday morning and find a box of chocolates on her desk. French macaroon chocolates to be exact, the ones that Miranda had caught her eating in Paris. Andrea smiled and the anger of the weekend was forgotten, how could Miranda do that? There is no note, but it’s not necessary. The fashion editrex calls an hour later, “did you like them?”  
The question is redundant, she already knows she does. Andrea nods as if she could see her.  
“They don’t erase how rude you were to me,” Andrea starts.  
“You won’t make me apologize, will you?” Miranda asks and Andrea detects humor in her tone.  
“No, but no more leaving me in the street and driving off. If we’re having a conversation you finish it, is that a compromise?” Andrea ask and as the words tumble out of her mouth she can’t understand where and how the relationship with the icy editor had changed. Surely the box of chocolates meant that Miranda at least valued her existence in some way. She’s sure she’s going to hear the click of the phone as Miranda laughs at her ex-assistant’s insubordination but she doesn’t. Instead Miranda simply inhales and answers, “fine.”  
There is a momentary pause after which Miranda coughs and asks, “Let’s try again. Dinner and a show next Friday.”  
“Okay,” Andrea smiles as she answers.  
“I’ll send Roy at 5 so we can make it to the show.”  
“I’ll see you then.”  
Andrea doesn’t realize she’s smiling at the phone until Jessica the next- door cubicle dweller says, “new boyfriend?”  
Andrea shakes her head, “friend. Just a good friend.”  
“Right…”  
She’s being honest, Miranda was and would always be just her friend. She takes her to see a sold-out event, “I love Cate,” Andrea comments as they exit the orchestra booth.  
“She’s amazing,” Miranda concedes.  
“Can I ask you about last Friday?” Andrea probes. She wants to know not because she wants to force Miranda to talk but because it matters to her. It breaks her heart to see the older woman so sad.  
Miranda nods.  
“Caroline is stubborn,” Miranda starts.  
“I wasn’t presuming to know them when I said she loved you,” Andrea clarifies even though she knows the fashion editor hates bringing up past mistakes.  
Miranda shrugs her silver hair falls slightly off center and she runs her perfectly manicured hand to fix it. She’s wearing Zac Posen again, black polka dot blouse and a sand colored skirt. She could not tell the collection maybe Anne Klein. The shoes are her favorite after Prada, Manolo flats. She looks impeccable as always and yet the next words that she speaks make her look tired and worried.  
“You probably know them better than I do. They are right you know? I never spend time at home. Ever since the divorce to their father I always seem to be out of the house. She knows saying she wants to be with her grandmother is the biggest way to annoy me.”  
“Why don’t you talk to you mother?” Andrea asks.  
“You only get three questions Andrea,” Miranda smiles curving her left side more giving her a smirk and Andrea nods.  
The silver haired icon sighs, “After harpers our relationship was rocky. She thought I was quitting over someone … something that had happened in Paris. She never approved of the life I choose. And when two years after the twins were born I decided to divorce their father, well she … let’s just say she’s a very conservative Jewish woman.”  
“I understand” the brunette answers placing a soft hand over Miranda’s.  
“I told Caroline that I’ll spend more time with them. And if she still chooses to once school is over, she may leave for London.”  
“She will come to her senses, you’re her mother,” Andrea continues.  
“I hope you’re right … now enough about me. I think you should try and leave product writing. As much as I love your word prowess to describe the new Clinique anti-aging cream I don’t think your dream career lies there.”  
“You do have a way to flatter a girl,” Andrea jokes.  
“I’m not here to flatter you,” Miranda deadpans.  
Andrea almost chokes on the glass of water she was drinking as they waited for diner.  
“I suppose I thank you for your friendship?”  
“Well … that can come later. Now I hear that Michael is about to change ship.”  
“you’re letting him go?” Andrea asks about the photography editor.  
“Well Lea from the art department will take his place, she’s more talented. But that means…”  
“I can’t take Lea’s spot…”  
“Ah you do understand...” Miranda chuckles and takes a sip of water.  
Andrea rolls her eyes.  
“I meant that Lea’s spot will need to be filled by someone in her own department but then there will be an art position available. It will be an assistant editor. Won’t it be much better than product reviews?”  
Andrea shrugs, “I like it, they are easy.”  
“comfortable is not successful, Andrea. I told you already you are not allowed to disappoint me twice.”  
“Oh right, right…. Okay I’ll go seek this new job you speak of.”  
“you’re such a child,” Miranda deadpans again but they both know it’s meant good naturedly.  
“I have one more question,” Andrea interjects as the dinner is almost consumed, “Will you have dinner with me next Friday?”  
Miranda nods, “of course.”

Their dinners become a sort of routine, interrupted only when someone has an event to go to. They only ever dine in at Miranda’s favorite restaurant in New York, an expensive albeit laid back Italian place. It suited them, they reserved the back-corner booth. It was black leather and squared tablecloths, it felt like it came out of the Godfather. The food was delicious and Miranda always ate the same steak and pasta dish. Andrea always chose the seafood linguini and they never had desert, Miranda would not allow it but she did permit after diner coffee, they lingered over coffee. The diners went from one month to two and six, they because more than office friends. For Miranda Andrea was probably her only friend, after Nigel. For Andrea Miranda was her dearest friend, she would tell Doug about her and Doug would always end every conversation with the same words, “you have to tell her how you feel.”  
“I can’t,” Andrea would answer, “she’d never talk to me again.”  
“What if she feels the same?” he would ask knowing he would get the same question.  
“She doesn’t, don’t be naïve.”

One day Cassidy came along to diner. Both Priestly women came out of the townhome as Roy rounded up to pick them. They sat down and Cass acted like they did the same thing every week.  
“Hello Andy, I wanted to meet you,” the young girl said.  
“You already have,” Andrea answered looking up at the girl’s mother.  
“As mom’s assistant but now you’re her friend, that’s what she said. I thought we could hang out?”  
Andrea look up to see the look on Miranda’s face, the older woman shrugs slightly barely noticeable with the off the shoulder Donna Karan cable knit sweater she was wearing and black palazzo pants draping over wine colored pumps.  
“I hope you don’t mind,” Miranda says playing with the strand of pearls that put the whole outfit together.  
Andrea shakes her head, she could never mind. “Of course not Miranda, it’s a privilege that you will allow her to come.”  
Both Priestly women smile.  
“Mom said she wanted to invite you to our birthday but wasn’t sure you’d accept.”  
“Cassidy,” Miranda warns raising her voice slightly.  
“I wasn’t supposed to say that, but will you?”  
Andrea’s eyes sparkle, “of course, when is it?”  
“November 3rd,” the red head child spits.  
“Count me there.”  
Miranda enjoyed the time spent with Andrea, the young girl was refreshing. She made Miranda see things in a different light, and more than anything she enjoyed watching her grow personally and professionally. She often thought it was as if she were seeing herself. Andrea had spoken to Lea about a position in the art department. She hadn’t gotten it because Lea already had someone in mind and Miranda decided that it was better not to intervene. Andrea’s efforts however did not go unnoticed and the Savanna over at editorial needed a copywriter so Andrea hopped over for four months until she was given a chance as junior editor. Miranda had been incredibly proud when she had found out by way of Nigel, it took Andrea two days to tell Miranda the news. The older woman acted completely surprised.  
She had sent the young junior editor a Tiffany bracelet that said, “you should write a story.” It was an allusion to the conversation over New Years.  
Miranda was met with a thank you email that said, “A story about you.”  
As much as Miranda liked spending Friday’s with Andrea she also worried that the young girl was in a way too attached to her. Miranda admired Andrea’s drive, perfectionism, talent but she didn’t feel anything else for her.  
“What do you think of my friendship with Andrea,” she had asked Nigel the day before the girl’s birthday party.  
“I think it’s been good for you both. Six likes you, she admires you, I think she always has. You can mentor her and then people will speak kinder of you,” he jokes.  
She doesn’t find the allusion funny, “don’t be naïve. I have never cared about the press or people.”  
“I know,” he sighs collecting the last of the proofs from a Calvin Klein shoot.  
“Do you have a friendship like that?” she asks not sure what she means.  
He turns around at the edge of the door, pinstriped pants and dark turtleneck. He runs his ring clad hand over his bald head, “just don’t hurt her okay. If you’re going to be her friend then truly be it. Six … she really loves your company.”  
She wants to ask what he means but lets him go instead.  
Andrea shows up the party late and with two envelopes. Cassidy and Caroline are swimming in gifts but the two young girls clamor to the young brunette nonetheless.  
“I got you two something different,” she says hoping they won’t be disappointed.  
Miranda watches her daughters from the staircase, they open the envelope slowly and their faces light up instantly. They smile as they had just been gifted a year vacation at Walt Disney World.  
“Omigsh Andy this is awesome!!! Can we frame them?” Caroline says first and it surprises Miranda.  
“Yes, I’ll get you two some frames, now show me where the cake is!”  
Miranda is dying to know what the envelopes contain but her daughter took the envelopes with them as they show Andrea the rest of the party.  
Later when the clamor had dies Miranda hands Andrea a cup of coffee, “I have never seen Caroline so happy,”  
“you can ask,” Andrea says. She can read Miranda like the palm of her hand. She’s noticed two things she got there. One that the older woman was in fact dying to know what the envelopes contained and two that she was holding her distance from her.  
“What did you give them?”  
“Stars … Stars named after them,” Andrea answers, “what else do I get the girls who have everything?”  
Miranda exhales, “thank you.”  
“I got you something too,” the brunette smiles.  
Miranda arches an eyebrow, “you did?”  
“It’s payback for the bracelet,” Andy explains and hands the silver haired editor an envelope.  
Miranda opens it and sure enough she has a star too. She smiles, “you’re silly.”  
“Life is meant to be silly Miranda, we’re meant to take it lightly at times. We can’t always have what we want,” she says as she’s looking at her. Again, they are just as close as New Year’s, sitting on the same couch and Andrea can only again smell Chanel no. 5.  
“So we get stars instead?”  
The younger woman smiles and takes a sip of the coffee that was cooling in her hand.  
“it was a fun party,” she starts.  
Miranda is about to say something but the phone rings, “it’s Nigel again. He just left what does he need?” Miranda asks more to herself than anyone else.  
“Nate my ex, used to say the phone calls you answer the most is the relationship you’re in,” Andrea jokes.  
Miranda laughs slightly before getting up and answering the call.


	10. Phone Calls

The holidays approached fast after the girl’s birthday. Miranda once again had the slew on invitations, compromises, and appointments not to mention the added bonus of all the details the holidays entailed. Each year they rotated Thanksgiving for the girls, the previous year it had been her turn and this year they were flying out to the Berkshires to spend time with their father and hopefully watch the snow fall, though the weather was predicting a hot week. She nudged her glasses up the Wednesday before and sighed, she already had a list of things to do for the month to come that would top her usual list. The girls had left early that morning and though she missed them already all she wanted to do was go home, grad a cup of tea and soak in a bathtub. Come Monday she’d had to call the decorator for the house, the staff meeting for the holiday magazine, she had a meeting with Conde Nast Traveler, and Glamour and she had to give Emily a list of VIP’s that needed early holiday gifts. At some point, she’d have to send her mother a card for Hanukkah and … she closed her eyes. It had been a long time since she liked celebrating the holidays, she mostly did everything for the twins and because she had to for appearances.  
Though she had been brought up Jewish as soon as she got to New York, she had shed the beliefs she had never been a fan of anyway. She found the traditions of Christmas comforting and peaceful. She loved the glamour and ascetics that revolved around them but also the belief that a child could change the outcome of the world. She had brought up the twins in secular fashion though they often attended midnight mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and observed the weeks of Advent because she found them beautiful. She liked to spend holidays alone with her family. Whenever the girls stayed for Thanksgiving she’d cook dinner and give Cara and most of the staff, the holiday off. With the exception of the holiday party they always hosted she also did Christmas eve alone and well New Years was her sanctuary. Sanctuary that had strangely been disrupted by Andrea the previous year, and it had somehow not been bad. Cara who was usually the only person who watched the fireworks with her and drank champagne on that night, had been extremely quiet about it. When Miranda had asked her a few days later what she thought of Andrea her response had been, “it was good to see you share that day with someone who cares about you.”  
‘Cares about me?’  
The words had rattled in Miranda’s brain for a few days and then she had forgotten about them with the mayhem of the year but now that the holidays approached again she thought about them. How could Cara tell that Andrea cared for her? And what did she mean by cared?  
She would understand it now when they had been friends for a year, but that night? Had Andrea always cared? Is that why she excelled at her job? She wanted to please her?  
“Miranda, it’s late,” the upbeat voice from her Art Director snaps her out of her thoughts. The day had passed in a haze and as she turns to look out the window it’s past dusk.  
“You should go home it’s Thanksgiving tomorrow,” Nigel voices. He’s on his way out, carrying his Birkman office bag and camel colored coat. The air is frosty in New York this time of year.  
“I am well aware,” she bites back.  
He takes a step out then reconsiders, “any plans?”  
She shakes her head, “the usual extravagant dinner with all my friends.”  
He knows she’d dripping sarcasm, he smiles. “You should come over I’m having my sister over.”  
She shakes her head, “I need some peace and quiet but thank you.”  
He nods detecting the contemplative mood she’s in and simply repeats, “go home.”  
She nods in assessment and retrieves her cell phone. The assistant who is only waiting for her runs to hand her the coat and bag. Nigel is already ahead.  
As she exits her phone beeps, “I hear you’re still in the building would you care for some tea?”  
It’s Andrea. She does not answer. She takes her time and wonders what she wants to say. She used to ignore the younger woman and often answer hours or days later. As the months wore on she has found herself replying within minutes, sometimes seconds, sometimes she has to force herself to not reply. She has the feeling that she’d keeping Andrea from something. It’s silly.  
“I’m tired she answers but you can come by tomorrow for one, “she sends the text.  
Then she realizes that it’s Thanksgiving, “if you’re free, no obligations.”  
She amends. Does it sound desperate? Is she desperate for company? Has she really never noticed.  
“My parents will be in town,” comes the immediate reply, “I’ll have to raincheck it. Have a happy thanksgiving. Say hi to the girls for me.”  
She feels snubbed. Why does it matter? She had not told Andrea that the girls were leaving. Maybe if she had told her that she was going to be alone?  
The car lulls in the New York traffic, the black leather seats shimmer momentarily with the glare of the lights outside the windows. She’s being ridiculous.  
“Of course,” she answers and is about to put the phone away when she hears it ring.  
It’s Andrea. The young woman’s name flashes across the screen and Miranda feels something akin to excitement. She’s not liking friendship anymore, this co-dependency on someone else to bring you joy. Now she remembers why she had shied away from it for so long. Her eyes narrow, there are a few wrinkles around her eyes and her lips purse causing the laugh lines to pop out too. She wipes her hands on the soft fleece of her dark green skirt and answer anyway.  
“Andrea,” she whispers.  
“Miranda,” it sounds like the brunette is smiling, “I can bring you coffee, early morning coffee.”  
“Why?” Miranda asks.  
“Because I haven’t seen you all week, and you’ll probably be busy after.”  
“Why do I need to see you with coffee?’ Miranda is aware how rude her comments sound, but she always gets defensive when she’s afraid of getting hurt. And she feels afraid of getting hurt.  
She can’t explain it. She just is.  
“For old times’ sake?” Andrea jokes. That is Andrea’s defense mechanism laughter. She makes fun of the situation, of herself. It deflects.  
“I don’t have to pick up my parents until 4, I am having dinner bought. Besides the flights at JFK are never on time, “Andrea had offered at the lack of response from the editor.  
The car finally arrives at the townhome, Miranda knows the routine by heart, Roy parks on the sidewalk and gives Miranda a moment before he opens the door.  
“Why did you break up with Nate?” Miranda asks. It’s out of the conversation but she had been wondering for a long time now.  
“What?” the surprised response of the journalist comes out in a high pitch.  
Miranda gets out of the car, the soft thud of her Manolo pups echoes in the mostly quiet upper Manhattan neighborhood.  
“We were on different paths… I guess,” Andrea answers.  
Miranda licks her lips and slows her walk to the townhome. Roy stays at the helm of the car, he wonders if she forgot something. If he’s going to have to drive back to Runway.  
“I mean what was the defining moment, what did he say?” Miranda is fishing now. She doesn’t know what for. She’ll know it when she hears it.  
“Umm…. Does this have to do with tomorrow?” Andrea asks concern coloring her voice.  
“When did you walk away?”  
Andrea sighs on the other side of the line, Miranda has reached the top step. She reaches into her white Prada bag and takes out the key that she always keeps in her left interior pocket.  
It turns.  
“It was after you told me about Paris,” Andrea starts.  
The familiar resistance of the lock pushes against the key. It clicks once.  
“A few days before the actual trip,” she continues.  
It makes two more turns freeing the latch.  
“My friend was doing an art exhibit, we argued,”  
The door opens to reveal a soft light over a mostly dark hallway.  
“the phone rang and we never really finished the conversation. He said I was in a relationship with the person whose calls I … always … took,” Andrea pauses over the last words and then finishes, “he moved out that night.”  
Miranda has set her bag down on the table with the flowers, she took her coat off but did not hang it, it drapes over the same table too. The thousand dollar Valentino cashmere coat sweeps the hardwood floor. She’s breathing slightly faster and for some reason holding the phone tighter. Her tone drops an octave, “who was calling?”  
Andrea takes a deep breath and the word comes out as an exhale. She should not have called, “you.”  
Miranda’s eyelids flutter. It’s on the verge of making sense but she doesn’t want it to.  
“Do you always take my calls?” she asks but she already knows the answer.  
“Miranda …” the brunette tries to explain or not explain. Maybe she’s desperately buying time.  
“Andrea?”  
“Yes … always,” she answers.


	11. Confessions

The world holds still as if two words had the power to freeze time. She is sure that what she’s feeling would be the equal of a glass vase shattering, exploding in all directions. An expensive, large crystal vase filled with flowers and water, shards flying into despair and the noise as it clatters to the ground. Suddenly those words explain everything. They explain not why Andrea had been answering all of her calls but why Miranda had recently been answering all of Andrea’s, it explains not why Andrea wanted to come back to Runway but why Mirada let her. It makes sense now, the urge to befriend her and get to know her and bypass her insubordinate comments. Miranda wants to smile but she knows there is only one way this ever ends. She wants to believe that Andrea would be different but she’s no longer young and naïve.  
Is it her turn to be Patrice now? Is it her turn to break Andrea’s heart? Would it mean breaking her own? Is that what happened, did Patrice break her own heart? Did her world shatter to when she left Miranda at the steps of the hotel in Paris? Miranda would like to think so, that those days meant something. What now? What does she tell Andrea?  
The seconds tick away slowly like an old Dali painting, the clocks melting against an arid background. They feel like minutes, like centuries in cathedral silence. Miranda sits down on the first chair she finds, a stool that leans against the dark wood of her hallway.  
“Miranda?” Andrea asks. She’s not sure what she’s asking she simply wants to hear the other woman speak. Andrea is aware of the confession that has been made, she just isn’t sure if Miranda will see it as such or if she will choose to ignore it. Andrea is home, sitting cross legged on her sofa, paging thought the email that contains her parents flight information.  
“Andrea …” Miranda pauses.  
“Coffee tomorrow?’ Andrea asks because that is all she has the courage to ask.  
“I’m not sure coffee is appropriate now, I am busy in the morning.”  
“I understand,” Andrea answers before Miranda can dig a bigger hole for them both.  
“I’ll let you rest,” Andrea says.  
Miranda hums, the phone clicks. Somewhere in the background Patricia pads over to her. Miranda rarely breaks down, she hasn’t found someone to care for in a long time. Now she isn’t sure. What was it about Andrea that made her different?  
She dials back. As promised Andrea answers.  
“Tea, I’ll pick you up at 8.”  
“Okay,” Andrea answers.  
There are no more words spoken that night. Miranda is sure that all this is crazy. She’s going to tell Andrea that they can only be friends. Maybe she’ll say they can only be acquaintances. Friendship was overrated anyway. There was too much caring, too much angst, too many possibilities of being hurt.  
Whenever Miranda says, “I’ll pick you up.” It usually means Roy, Roy will pick them up. That Thanksgiving morning is no different. The weather is hot and crisp. There is a slight breeze and no sign of rain. New York looks beautiful and so does Andrea. In a way, she channels at that moment all that New York stands for. Her hair mimics the dark browns of fall, she’s wearing a burnt orange leather coat that she’s wore before and she opts for black slacks and a beige blouse. It’s too dressed up for a morning tea date but one can never overdress for Miranda Priestly.  
“you look great,” is the praise the effort gains her and as Miranda opens the door to the townhouse.  
“I thought tea here without people would be best,” Miranda arguments and Andrea nods hanging her coat over the same stool Miranda had sat in the night before. Miranda looks undone for once though still effortlessly put together. She is wearing burgundy slacks and flats and the minimal makeup makes her look younger and cozy. It makes Andrea want to hold her and watch the sunset with her. She knows this is not what she’s here for. She’s confident Miranda will draw the line of their friendship.  
The tea comes first; delicious Maple tea sweetened with honey and accompanied with slices of fruit over toast. It tastes like home, like home on Christmas morning.  
“This tea is amazing,” Andrea comments.  
“I’m glad you like it, it is the girls favorite too.”  
The conversation is unstructured as it is always with them, there is a box of decorations on the foot of the stairs that the decorator has brought over.  
“When are they starting?” Andrea asks.  
“They are supposed to be finished by the 28th. “  
“Wow fast,” she says.  
“Cass and Caroline wanted to know if you’re coming to the party on the 22nd?”  
“I’m I invited?” Andrea deadpans.  
“I would not be asking otherwise, I didn’t want to answer for you.”  
“I will always say yes to you,” Andrea clarifies as is the editor needed more clarification.  
Miranda looks away from the brunette’s gaze.  
“Yes, I know,” Miranda sighs.  
“Are you not going home for the holiday again?” Miranda asks. The tea is almost done. Andrea looks at her watch it’s 10am, she got there at 8am sharp. It has been two hours, Miranda hasn’t said a single word about the conversation they held the night before.  
Andrea shakes her head, “no my father is going to visit his brothers in Connecticut and mom is visiting my sister out in LA. I will be watching a holiday movie alone.”  
Miranda half smiles and nods and looks at the clock, “I do have a few things to do, I don’t want to keep you either.”  
“Yeah, …” Andrea gets up but is not very convinced of the excuse that Miranda has given her. Miranda rises with her, “you’re welcome to come spend the night with us … if you want.”  
It’s a very soft invitation, if Andrea had been further away as she picked up her coat and Miranda walked her to the door she could have missed the words.  
It’s a cinematic blur, Andrea does it fast enough where Miranda can’t pull back but slow enough to where Miranda saw it coming. She leans in, and kisses the older woman. She’s completely sure this is inappropriate, but she’s also sure that Miranda won’t stop her. The assistant who could read the Ice Queens body language, the one that was capable of the impossible feats is right again. Miranda stands perfectly still. The kiss is soft and shallow yet it plunges both women into the depth of something unknown. Their lips meet, Miranda is soft and moist and warm. Andrea captures the editors upper lip between both of hers and Miranda closes her eyes, her breath quickens and a soft sigh escapes her. Then Andrea breaks apart and whisper, “I would love to come.”  
Miranda has nothing else to say but close the door.

They don’t speak for three weeks. Perhaps they really are busy, Andrea’s parents are in town, Miranda is busy with the holidays, and the magazine and her thoughts.  
They aren’t avoiding each other or maybe they are. The revelations are not something they want to deal with.  
Andrea consumes more wine than she normally does during those weeks. She has anxiety about the holiday party, the year before she had been just a charity case. A lonely ex assistant who was somehow invited to the ‘it’ event. Miranda owed her nothing and if she had never spoken to her again she would not have been surprised. Now Miranda had to speak to her and what would that mean. Would she say they were friends? People would ask about her, she felt completely self-conscious.  
“I don’t think I can make the holiday party,” she texts Miranda a week before it happens.  
She receives an instant reply, “is that why you haven’t rsvp’d?”  
“I haven’t been feeling well.”  
“Wear something warm.”  
“I rather not, I don’t want to be sick there.”  
She receives no reply. She assumes Miranda got upset. She curls up in bed and calls off work. She’s tired and if she’s honest she is feeling a little bit under the weather.  
Hours later there is a knock at the door. It’s the same girl who delivered the invite a year ago. She’s carrying a sky-blue box and a note.  
“From her?” Andrea asks.  
The girl nods, she no longer looks afraid. The girl looks more assertive albeit aloof.  
“Yes,” the girl answers. Andrea wonders how the hell this girl managed to stay a year.  
The box is exactly what Andrea imagines it to be, a cocktail dress. The card looks like it was scrawled in a rush, Miranda’s neat handwriting is slightly sideways.  
“Is that how you avoid serious conversations? I went down to look for you, I left my office and went down and didn’t even find you. I hope you come and all this year wasn’t a waste of friendship.”  
The words are harsh and direct. They hint at annoyance, power and friendship. Andrea understands them as an ultimatum. She didn’t expect anything less. Miranda is a hurricane, she isn’t a tropical sprinkle. Everything with Miranda is all or nothing, black or white, in or out. Miranda doesn’t do halfway. That was the most confusing part of the note. Friendship. Was Miranda willing to put it all behind and continue a friendship that clearly yearned for more? Andrea should consider it a win. She always knew Miranda would never look at her the ways she looked at Miranda.  
The dress fits like a glove, she wears Valentino pumps and a cautious smile to the party.  
Miranda smiles slightly when she arrives but there is no cordial welcome. In fact, Miranda doesn’t come over until more than halfway through the night. As usual Miranda has nursed the same glass of wine all night. She’s watched the brunette from across the room, this time around Giselle has made it to the party and has been the one that conversed with Andrea most of the night.  
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Miranda whispers. A few of the guest have departed but most are drinking and pointing at the decorations on the foyer.  
“I don’t like to be knowns as someone who avoids conversation,” she answers.  
“So I see,” Miranda states before she gets interrupted by Tom as he bids farewell.  
This time around Andrea stays until the end. It’s almost 2 in the morning.  
“Did you have fun?” the older woman asks sitting down at the same couch from a year ago.  
Andrea nods. Miranda reaches across the table to a white box and she hands it over to Andrea, “Merry early Christmas.”  
The box contains a leather -bound journal, personalized with Andrea’s name on it. It’s hand -made, clearly sewn and bound as they used to. The letters are embossed and then painted over with gold. An inscription was painted inside, “yet she persisted.”  
“It’s gorgeous Miranda, thank you.”  
Miranda slides her hand across to meet Andrea’s, “we can’t do this.”  
Andrea nods, “I know.”  
Her answer is simple and Miranda had expected it to be harder. She had expected Andrea to try and reason. Instead she gets ocean calm, soft ocean peace.  
Andrea simply agrees and then reached over and kisses the editor again. The kiss is different from before. Today Miranda had been resting on the back cushion of the sofa, Andrea had pressed her lips against the bold red ones of the older woman who was saying no. Their hands were still together, all the warning bells go off again. Miranda used her free hand to pull the brunette closer because she doesn’t want to but she does. It’s inexplicable, the way Andrea makes her do things. The kiss is longer, deeper full of unanswered questions and meaning.  
“We can’t …” Miranda attempts again after they break the kiss.  
“You’re not in love with me, “she tries to make Andrea understand that it’s just infatuation. She has been where Andrea is now. She’s gotten her heart broken. She doesn’t want Andrea to go through the same. Miranda is going to hurt her. Patrice did, she hurt her.  
“You’re wrong,” Andrea still hoovers over Miranda and looks at her. The earth brown of her eyes meets the torrid blue ones beneath her.  
“Why did you come down that night, why did Miranda Priestly come to talk to me?”  
She’s referring to the first Friday when Miranda came down with a fruit bowl.  
“I was alone and I … for some reason talking to you seemed like a good idea.”  
“Does it still seem like a good idea?’  
Miranda nods, “I’m going to break your heart.” She whispers but she’s not sure she could, she’d do anything to protect Andrea. If she’s honest she’s more afraid that the young woman will break hers.  
“No, you won’t and I won’t walk away Miranda. I won’t leave like whoever it was did.”  
Miranda doesn’t answer.  
“Are you sure?”  
Andrea doesn’t answer instead she kissed the editor again. She could kiss her all night. Miranda is intoxicating, her Chanel no. 5, the smell of her expensive foundation, the slight berry on her breath. She could spend every single day with her.

Her wish is granted at least for those two days, Miranda had invited her to spend Christmas with them and Andrea returns to the townhome on the 24th.  
“Mom said you will be over a lot,” they eye her suspiciously but kind.  
“She did?”  
“Well she said you might… be over more often. We take that as you’ll be here all the time,” the twins like to talk to her. Miranda is finishing some last minute calls, they are all standing around the kitchen isle waiting for her to finish so they can make cookies.  
“She also asked if we liked you,” Caroline smiles showing her braces and the gap on her front teeth.  
“Do you?”  
“To be her girlfriend? Yes, we think you’re cool,” they say in unison.  
“what? She said that?” Andrea spits the wine that she was drinking.  
“No, we put the pieces together. Well she said you were very good friends, that maybe would become best friends. We’re not 5,” they explain.  
“I can see that now,” comes the moderated voice of Miranda and Andrea chokes even more on her wine.  
The night is very much centered around the girls, they watch Miracle on 34th street and then they fall asleep. It isn’t until very early the next morning before the moon even goes to sleep that they talk. This is the most unguarded Andrea has ever seen Miranda, in her pajamas, without a single trace of makeup, cross legged on the floor with a cup of coffee. Her head is resting on the seat of the sofa upon which Andrea is sat, Andrea’s hands find their way to run their fingers between strands of silver hair.  
“What happens now Miranda?”  
“I though you would tell me? I thought you had it figured out, didn’t you say I would not hurt you and you would not leave? I thought you knew it all?” Miranda’s little ramble is half sarcasm half whimsical.  
“I don’t, I want to everything with you but I don’t want to rush. We can go slow?” Andrea ventures.  
Miranda has pushed herself of the floor and sat down on the sofa, on the side as Andrea was stretched out sideways. They are face to face, Miranda can see the smoothness of Andrea’s skin, her dark brown eyes looking longingly at her. She can feel the years weigh on her. Andrea can see the lines defined around the stormy blue eyes.  
“there is no slow with me Andrea,” Miranda chuckles, “You know that better than anyone. What ex-assistant would say such a calamity? There is no slow because the media will find out, Runway will find out, and you will be the eye of the hurricane. There is no slow because your life will change. There is no slow because if you’re with me it’s all or nothing. Are you sure about this?” Miranda eyes Andrea she’s hoping the brunette will say no. She’s hoping this madness can end here; apparently, she has no willpower to end it.  
Andrea nods. Part of Miranda is relieved. The part that had been holding her breath, grasping her heart bends down and kisses her new lover. The other part is wildly disappointed, the part that is wondering how the fuck this all happened. Last year she hadn’t even known she loved this young woman, last year she had been doing what she promised herself she would do. She had been achieving all her goals, not falling in love, being a good mother. How was it that she had ended here? Kissing Andrea on Christmas morning?  
She doesn't have the answers and she's almost sure Andrea doesn't either. She is sure however that the media will make their own answers and she's sure they won't be pretty.  
"You should tell you parent's about us, before the newspapers do," Miranda tells Andrea that night as she's dropping her off at her apartment.  
"I will," Andrea whisper into Miranda's ear.  
"We'll try to keep it just us for the rest of the holidays at least. Maybe until Fashion week," she editor mumbles more to herself than anyone else.  
"Okay," Andrea notes.  
"I just want you to be prepared, it ... they will hound you. You will live a lot of your life," she pauses, "as long as you're with me under the media's inspection."  
"I'll talk to my parent's soon," Andrea whispers and gets out of the car into the dark winter night.


	12. Sofa and Bed

Despite Miranda’s words that it was all or nothing both take it as a day to day development. Deep down Miranda wishes she hadn’t fallen for Andrea. She knows she should not feel that way, that she’s lucky to have the young woman, that Andrea truly loves her without asking for anything in return. She knows she could have told Andrea a lie, that she didn’t love her and Andrea would have stuck around being her friend. She feels like Darcy the first time he made a declaration of love to Elizabeth, she feels like her brain is going against the wishes of her heart. She’s letting Andrea in but not completely, perhaps it’s because she’s terribly afraid. This is the first time she’s truly cared, the first time she has followed her heart since … Patrice. She knows Andrea is completely different, she knows but she can’t help it.   
Andrea notices but does not say a thing, she knows it won’t be easy. She knows Miranda has a past that she’s not willing to talk about. Not the past that is common knowledge, she’s not talking about Gregory, the twin’s dad, or Stephan or even the lovers she’s been rumored to have. She knows there was someone else, someone special, someone that broke the older woman’s heart. She knows old love wounds never heal completely but she wants to help Miranda forget the pain.  
“Shall we do New Year’s again?”   
Miranda nods, they’ve been together for a few days. The silver haired editor is sitting on the same sofa that has become a staple of their conversations. The twins left to their fathers, the house is quiet and somber.   
“Are you okay?” Andrea asks running her hand over the editor’s shoulders.   
Miranda smiles and grabs Andrea’s free hand to pull her over the sofa jokingly, Andrea complies pretending to fall on the editor’s lap. Miranda laughs and Andrea smiles. She loves to hear Miranda laugh, it’s out of character to see her behave like this and it still catches the brunette off guard.   
“We can definitely do New Year’s again. I would not want to spend it with anyone else.”  
The night is very much a repetition of the previous year, expect dinner is less formal, there are no hits of any kind Andrea opting instead to hold her lovers hand as they breeze in and out of the living room. The watching of the fireworks remains the same, Cara joins again only this time she stands to the other side of the balcony and Andrea lightly kisses Miranda as the fireworks reflect on blue eyes.

She stays over that night, it was their first night together.   
They lay in bed for an eternity both draped in their gowns listening to the sounds of a whole new year. The city awakens or goes to sleep within their watch. Finally, Andrea untangles herself from the older woman and straddles Miranda, leaning in to kiss her. Miranda smiles into the kiss, there is no opposition from the famous editor as she runs her hands over the metallic fabric of Andrea’s dress and unzips it. It isn’t perfect but it feels perfect to them. There are awkward moments and for a second, each in their own time feel like teenagers having sex for the first time. The second time around is what they expected the first time, and neither can get enough of the other one. It’s almost as intoxicating as conversation.   
Not much sleep is done that night and when Andrea does doze of Miranda wraps a teal robe around her and descends the stairs for coffee. The house is stark quiet, there is a gentle hum of electronics and anticipation. Miranda feels electricity hoover around her; the same kind you feel on Christmas morning as a child, or before a big trip. She hasn’t felt that in a long time … well maybe each time she sees a new designer or a show in fashion week, but this is different. The coffee maker dings and she can smell the Colombian roast as she pours it into a large porcelain mug. She leans against the kitchen island and takes in the morning dawn. She stands there quietly for a few minutes, more than a few minutes and she eventually pads out to the studio for a view into the street. She’s not really aware of how much time elapses, her mug is empty and she feels slightly hungry when she hears the soft thud of steps.  
“Do you want me to make breakfast?” Andrea husks. Miranda looks up to smile at the woman. She’s beautiful bathed in soft sunlight of a winter day in New York, wrapped in one of her silk robes, charcoal grey and fluffy slippers. Her chocolate eyes sparkly as she lifts her lashes and smiles at her, she wishes she had a camera with her, she wishes she could capture this moment in more ways than just her memory.   
“You look beautiful, Andrea,” she whispers making the younger woman blush.  
“How many models have you told that to?” Andrea asks not moving from the door frame.  
“Three,” Miranda answers with calculating precision, “Cindy Crawford, Amber Valleta and Gisele Bundchen, none of them were makeup free and wrapped in my robe.”  
Andrea laughs, it’s loud and it overflows into the room. She sits down sloppily next to the well posed editor and asks, “do you really love me?”  
It takes a long breathy sigh from Miranda as she answers, “Yes I do.”   
“Tell me about them,” Andrea proves.  
Miranda shakes her head, “not today darling. I want to day to be just you and us and a new year of all the possibilities.”  
It seems simple enough, the two women sit there a few more minutes. If this was a movie the camera would draw out both ladies in contrasting colors of silk, teal and charcoal standing out against a soft beige background. The light from the encircling window would flood the room and you’d hear their mumbled conversation and occasional laughter. It seemed simple as Andrea followed Miranda out of the room to order some breakfast but it wasn’t.   
Miranda did not make any efforts to make the relationship public though the PR team did offer.  
“It will be better if we leak the story, we’ll have control over how it pans out in the media,” Leslie had said three days after New year’s when Miranda let know, “No we’ll let it play itself,” Miranda decided.  
Andrea didn’t voice her opinion. She felt like Miranda was trying to hide her, but she did not have cards to argue with. She had not told her parent’s yet. Miranda had asked, Andrea had avoided. Miranda wasn’t sure Andrea would.  
“I think it’s better if we …”  
“I didn’t ask you what you thought,” Miranda cut the thin blonde off, “I just want you to do your job when the time comes.”  
“Right,” came the quick defense reply.  
“You may go now,” the editor had said and Leslie exited the studio quickly.

Perhaps it was a test or Miranda was getting tired of the silence. Two months in she does the unexpected, though nothing is really unexpected anymore.  
“An-dre-ah,” she calls out as the young woman takes her make up off one night that the editor had asked her to stay.   
“Mhhh?” Andrea look up into the mirror that gives her a direct glance of Miranda who is standing at the doorway to the large elegant bathroom.  
“Come with me to Paris,” she says. It’s meant to give the appearance of a question, but there is no change in the tone of her voice. It’s not a question, it’s a request.  
“I don’t know,” Andrea answers still watching Miranda through the mirror.   
Miranda purses her lips, “you don’t know if you want to come with me to Paris?”  
Now the question is a reproach, the brunette gets up and encircles Miranda’s waist.   
“I do, I want to go everywhere with you,” she leans in to kiss the older woman who shies away.  
“then?” she says lifting an eyebrow.  
“Are you sure you need that publicity on Fashion Week?”   
“It’s not like we’re going to advertise you,” the Runway editor answers flatly and now it’s Andrea’s turn to reproach. She lets Miranda go and shakes her head, soft brown curls bouncing as she does, “Geez you sure now how to make me feel good.”  
“What do you want? You want me to sugar coat it for you? You want me to give a press release saying I’m bringing my younger lover to Paris? What I do with my life needs no explanation to the media. If they find out Leslie knows what to do.”  
“So do you want them to know or should I stay in the hotel room all day?” Andrea bites back.  
“Don’t give me a guilt trip Andrea, doesn’t suit you. Hasn’t made you feel bad yet,” Miranda finishes and pulls the cover to the bed out sliding in and turning the lights off.  
“I haven’t wanted to push,” Andrea clarifies.  
“I don’t see you rushing to tell your family,” Miranda says and throws in, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore Andrea.”  
“Is that all?” Andrea mocks.  
“Yes, that’s all.”


	13. Apology Accepted

When Miranda wakes up Andrea was gone, not a startling realization considering how they went to bed. It was a strange feeling since Miranda was the one that always got up earlier than Andrea. She knew the young brunette was probably upset, she also knew calling her now would not solve the problem. 

She texted her a quick, “Good Morning Darling, I’m sorry about last night.” 

A few minutes later as she was about to step into the shower she got a reply, “Don’t worry about it Miranda. I’m going to the apartment after work, I have laundry and errands to do.”  
The response was expected, Andrea was the kind of person that pondered things in silence.  
Miranda doesn’t attempt to dissuade her some major pleading will have to happen later but for now she’s going to let Andrea have some space. “Okay. I’ll call you later.”

There is no reply this time around and as she gets to the office she knows exactly what to do.  
By the time Andrea climbs the stairs to her one bedroom later in the evening there is a bouquet of red roses waiting at the door, it holds a gold embossed card.

“Andrea,” it reads in Miranda’s neat handwriting.

“I want to apologize for last night, I was unjustified in being harsh and cruel. All you have done this past months is try and make me happy and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I hope you’ll forgive my words.”

Andrea smiles at the concise syntax of Miranda’s letter; perhaps this was a start she tells herself. Moments later there is a knock at the door, perhaps it’s another present from Miranda. She has already put the flowers on the counter and stashed the note way. She’s removed her hair from its hold and taken her feet out of the Valentino heels.  
It’s the Ice Queen herself, standing at the door in full Givenchy trench coat, holding a white rose and a paper bag that clearly belonged to a restaurant.  
“Miranda,” Andrea greets her surprised, “You’re here.”  
“I think so,” she answers stretching out her hand to give her the young rose.  
“I hope you got the flowers?”  
Andrea nods and steps aside to let her lover in. Miranda has only been here once before to pick her up for day with the twins. She’s never really sat in the sofa, or leaned on the white Formica counter. She notices there is an expensive collection of glass sculptures on the corner of the room, they feel out of place. She doesn’t signal them out to Andrea, she feels just like them.  
“I am sorry Andrea, I should not have …” Miranda starts setting down the paper bag.  
“You brought food?” the brunette asks not sure if she’s more surprised at the fact that Miranda is apologizing, that she is in her apartment or that she brought food.  
“I am a firm believer that no apology should ever be given without something to offer, nothing better than Chinese food in New York,” the elegant woman takes out a few paper containers and forks.  
“You… bought Chinese food? Miranda Priestly who doesn’t eat junk food is going to eat fried dumplings and orange chicken with me?”  
A smile forms on the older woman’s lips and she reaches out to grab Andrea’s hands, “You’ll find I will do a lot of things for those I love.” She doesn’t make the statement in vain. It is completely true. She doesn’t let herself love easily, but when she does she will give even her life for whoever it is; her daughters, Andrea or … in the past Patrice.  
They sit opposite each other and share the containers typical of Chinese food. There was shrimp dumpling in ginger sauce and orange chicken bathed in sticky sauce that would probably require Miranda an extra hour of Pilates. There is also rice and chow mien and fortune cream cheese wontons to share.  
There is much more than is being said floating in the air between the two women.  
“Andrea I …” Miranda stops.  
“What Miranda? Tell me, tell me what you’re not telling me?” the brunette asks almost desperately.  
“I love you against my better judgemetnal. I know it’s not necessarily a romantic line but it’s true. A part of me wished you had said you didn’t love me. I wish it not because I don’t care about you. It’s the contrary, it is because I’m afraid of caring too much and loosing you soon.”  
The confession is something Miranda has been mulling over since that phone call. It is something Andrea accepts gladly. That confession means Miranda is letting her walls down.  
“I am not going anywhere,” the brunette slides of her stool into the middle of Miranda’s open legs. The older editor encircles Andrea, placing her perfectly manicured hands over Andrea’s waist.  
“You already left once,” she reproaches.  
“Yes,” the younger woman accepts, “but I came back. I came back because I didn’t know how to exist without you. I love you Priestly and I want to stay with you until you want me to.”  
They both smile, “preferably forever.”  
“I wish you’d tell me what happened for you to be so guarded, I know it isn’t Stephan or … the twins father.”  
“Oh Andrea, it’s a story of long ago,” Miranda sighs, “it has no importance now. It would sound silly if I told it. “  
“Try me,” Andrea presses.  
The famed lady shakes her head, “no.”  
“You know everything about me,” Andrea counters pressing a soft kiss on Miranda’s cheek.  
“I actually don’t. Where are your parents from? What do they do? What does your sister do?”  
Andrea laughs and continues to kiss Miranda, “those are completely irrelevant questions. You’re not dating my parent’s!”  
Miranda chuckles and Andrea straightens up, “which by the way, they want to meet you.”  
“They what? When?”  
“I called them today, I told them. They were somewhat surprised but receptive and now they want to meet you.”  
“You told them already? About me?” Miranda looks incredulous, like she doesn’t believe Andrea.  
“Well I told them of our relationship, I didn’t tell them who you were…”  
“Oh great, then I’ll arrive there and they’ll fucking hate me,” Miranda says pushing the brunette away slightly as she got up to pour a glass of water.  
“Noooo… they are going to love you.”  
“When?” Miranda asks.  
“After Paris,”  
The older woman smiles, her eyes sparkle softly under the cheap fluorescent light that hangs from the dingy kitchen.  
“So you’re coming with me?” the editor asks.  
Her young love nods, “I already told you I’d go with you to the moon and back.”  
Uncharacteristically Miranda gets up from her dark wood stool and places a soft kiss on Andrea’s forehead embracing the younger woman in a long warm hug, the hug seemed to offer all the words that Miranda often lacked. It felt like it lasted an eternity, it whispered of love and hope and romance. Andrea returns the hug, pulling Miranda closer with her own arms. Neither woman say a word, Miranda’s chin rests on the brown of her lovers hair and she sighs after a while.  
“I wish I could keep you like this always,” she whispers into Andrea’s ears.  
You can Miranda, you can,” Andrea answers and it’s more of a reassurance than anything. There is a soft sadness in both women but not because of their relationship or this moment. It is one of those ethereal moments when both know that they are part of something so much grander, that there will be joy and laughter in their future; but it will also have pain and storms. That is the same for most couples. They know it.  
“Andrea,” Miranda peels herself away from Andrea and walks off into a soft lumpy couch, sitting on the armrest.  
“I want to tell you everything from this moment on, I know this is hard. I know I’m hard to be with, but I feel like I have known you forever,” she pauses because she’s sure her voice is going to break. This was not what she planned for tonight. This was not what she planned for her whole life.  
“I want you to never leave, I want to share my whole life with you. If it means Paris, the press, the girls, the house, my heart then I’m okay with it… are you? Are you ready for all that it means?”  
The brunette nods, “Miranda if I wasn’t I would not be here. You said it yourself, I would know more than anyone what being with you entails.”  
The silver haired woman nods, “good.”  
She extends her right hand signaling for Andrea to join her on the couch. The moment is drowning in hope, you can feel the smiles that grace their faces. It isn’t euphoric, it isn’t erratic, those sentiments would not represent them. This moment … it’s melancholic. It pulls from their past and their present, it mimics the movies of yore, the classic scene where the lovers know this is it. This is true love. Andrea complies, reaching for Miranda’s hand.  
“Take me to bed,” Andrea whispers so softly Miranda barely hears it but her smile phases to a smirk and her eyes catch the light of the room.  
“I want to take you home,” she returns, “I want to take you home forever, can you give me that?”  
Andrea nods into the crook of Miranda’s neck, kissing her lover.  
“Are you asking me to move in?” she mumbles through raged breaths, “Is Miranda Priestly asking her assistant to move in with her?”  
Miranda wants to give her a witty reply, an iconic Devil in Prada quote but she’s too distracted by Andrea kissing her collar bone, “You’re not my assistant… but yes… after Paris … we … can get rid of this apartment,” she takes a deep breath, “what do you say?”  
“Yes, always yes,” she answers.  
“I love you, Andrea,” Miranda repeats as the brunette kisses her again.

 

~

Andrea is sure that Miranda will have no time for her in Paris, she knows the fashion week schedule. She knows how hectic it gets, she knows the emergencies, the shows, the behind curtains, the meetings and celebrities and all the media attention. They cover even the guy who holds Miranda’s umbrella in the rain. She was sure that if they attempted outing they would be featured not only on page six but the evening news. She was sure of all of this; however, she had promised Miranda she’d go and she was planning on honoring the commitment. As she packed a few personal items in a carry on she thought about the possibility of forever with Miranda. She could not help but smile. She wanted to believe that nothing would prevent that, not their age difference, not society, not their careers. Andrea could feel it in her bones, they were made for each other, long before any of their other loves they were meant to find one another. It was like the monarch butterflies find sanctuary, like the turtles find the sea, like the waves find the wind to rise that is how they were meant to find each other.  
Her thoughts are interrupted by none other than Miranda herself, “are you ready darling? I’m sending Jamie over now?”  
“Yes, I’m ready,” she says.  
“No suitcase, right? I’m buying you a whole new wardrobe,” she says.  
“No suitcase,” Andrea sighs. She had told the older woman she didn’t need any new clothes but she had lost the battle. Miranda hangs up and Andrea patiently waits for Jamie the new driver Miranda has hired to help Roy with taking the girls to and from activities and now Andrea.  
Andrea tried to fight Miranda on that too, “I don’t need a chauffeur, I have taken the subway all these years.”  
“I don’t need a hairstylist but I have one, I don’t need an assistant but I have one, so you’re getting Jamie to drive you.”  
She figured this would be most of her life, fighting Miranda to stop spoiling her and she was okay with that.


	14. Deja Vu 2009

Paris was everything Andrea remembered, the rows of vintage themed houses on cobblestoned streets. Charles de Gaulle was still a nightmare and though they entered through the executive private entrance there was still stairs and hallways to conquer. The ride through the streets into their city center hotel was picturesque filled with red topped vendors and tourists snapping pictures of old Paris. Yes, everything was the same. The Eiffel towers still sparkled at dusk to the gasp and awe of new tourists and Les Champs still had lights strung between grandfather store and tech giants making their debut. Miranda talked about the hotel accommodations and how she’d probably skip dinner with her she had so much to get ready for.  
That was the main difference Miranda talking, Miranda talking to her as if they had always done this. The first time Andrea had ridden in the back entourage, stuck with other Runway staff, today she gets to sit next to the Diva who rests her hand on her thigh and lays her head on Andrea’s shoulders for a brief second.  
“I’m already tired darling, I wish I could stay in with you all night,” the editor whispers pulling herself together and opening the door to the limo into the Ritz. Andrea smiles to herself and remembers her previous thoughts about Miranda not having time to spend with her. She understands that is the price for dating Miranda Priestly, and she is fine with it. Having her to herself the rest of the time compensates for letting her be a diva in front of the cameras. She entertains herself after a quick power nap and takes a stroll to a nearby café to watch the tower sparkle and have a glass of wine or a few. France has a magic that is perpetuated perhaps by the media and some wicked marketing but it captures your soul nonetheless.  
She expects the whole week to be the same probably seeing Miranda here and there in small doses. She is completely wrong.  
She’s woken up by a knock at 5 in the morning the following morning. She wants to yell, ‘fucking go away!”  
Then she remembers she’s in Paris and at the Ritz and opens the door to find Miranda standing there, dressed in casual slacks and a loose sweater with dark sunglasses and two cups of coffee.  
The moment is comic in a way, Miranda Priestly is bringing her assistant coffee.  
“Get up, dress up and let’s go. You’ve got 30 minutes,” the diva barks out orders without a good morning.  
“30 minutes that’s low ball even by my standers.”  
“You don’t need make up, we’re not going to breakfast with Donatella,” Miranda clarifies and Andrea can’t help but think that to anyone outside this circle breakfast with Miranda would qualify as a chance to wear your Chanel.”  
“Okay,” Andrea sighs and after scrambling for a pair of jeans, a sip of coffee and dark shades to pair with her brushed hair she follows her lover out into the still dark Paris morning.  
They meet the driver at the entrance and he drops them of in the Latin Quarter, a bohemian neighborhood in which Miranda grabs her hand and the watch the sunrise walking on narrow streets and the sound of the city waking up. They settle in a small coffee shop with classic chairs outside the patio, they order two coffees.  
“I used to come here when I was younger,” Miranda confesses.  
“I wish I had met you then,” Andrea voices.  
“You weren’t even born,” Miranda says there is a pause and Andrea reaches out for the older woman’s hand.  
“Saving the best for last,” she smiles. Miranda chuckles. She loves to make Miranda laugh. This is worth having to share her time with the press, the fashion houses, the magazine. These moments where Miranda surprises Andrea, where she gets to see the multifaceted editor, that is what she lives for.  
“I have never shared this place with anyone,” Miranda states nostalgically.  
“Until now?” Andrea asks hopeful.  
“Until you, you have changed everything.”  
The blue-eyed editor turns to smile at Andrea, “what did you do last night?”  
The talk is amicable; Miranda complains about her staff, Andrea appeases her, they finish their coffee.  
They walk again, hand in hand into spiraled streets, talking about the famous Paris doors, the hanging flowers the street signs. There is so much to talk about that makes absolutely no sense and Andrea could do this forever. They meet the chauffeur again about four hours later, Miranda declares she has a show at 1 but she wants to have dinner.  
Dinner is a hurried steak in Miranda’s room before another show. Miranda has insisted Andrea go, the younger woman does not cave in. She tells Miranda she has a headache, she blames the wine from a night before. The truth is she does not want Miranda to deal with the press about them. She is protecting Miranda and Miranda lets it go, she is giving Andrea space just like they promised they would do.  
Andrea watches the editor walk away in a black satin gown and glittering silver earrings. Soon she’d walk into every gala holding the editors hand and letting the world know she belonged to her. She does not get her way the following evening. Miranda calls her to her room, she is dressed in elegant flowing Marchessa, light blue and black swirl in Marchessa fashion and she’s holding a garment bag. Andrea sighs and takes the bag of the milky white hand.  
“Where?”  
“The hotel restaurant,” Miranda says nonchalantly.  
And she’s right no one bats an eye as the two elegantly dressed women sit down in a corner booth of famed restaurant. They order escargot because Andrea wants to try them and then they order pork chops and salad. Miranda reaches across the table a few times to take food from her plate. Andrea looks around, “Darling stop,” Miranda asks and the young woman does.  
As they exit Miranda puts her hand on the small of Andrea’s back. Perhaps the secret is to be in the middle of fashion madness, no one is paying attention. It is better than trying to hide. They walk upstairs and end up ordering coffee talking about New York into late hours of the night. Andrea falls asleep in Miranda’s bed. She’s still dressed in a beige palazzo and her hair is still curled at the bottom. Miranda sits softly on the edge of the bed. She doesn’t disturb her young lover, she simply sits looking at her. It is the most out of character action one can think of for Miranda. She looks at Andrea like her whole life was hinged on her, there is love and fragile expectation in the sky-blue eyes.  
“How did I get you?” she whispers, “are you, repayment for everything I’ve lost?”  
The editor is asking herself. 

Paris week seems to last an eternity, there are more shows, private viewings, public viewings, there are debuts, celebrity meetings, and of course planning for the magazine. Miranda often looks across the hall or across the room to Andrea who is usually reading a book or who is absent altogether having opted for a walk along the seine. On the fourth day Miranda cancels a viewing, she sends Nigel and decides to stay with Andrea.  
“you didn’t have to, I never want you think you have to sacrifice anything for me,” Andrea clarifies.  
“Shhhh,” Miranda hushes her squeezing into the love seat where Andrea sat facing the magnificent Paris view. It wasn’t often Miranda took moments like this to sip tea and watch the slow passing of time, in such a beautiful place that some only hear about.  
“I’m not sacrificing anything to be here, have you ever seen me do something I don’t want?”  
Andrea shakes her head, “never.”  
The décor of the iconic hotel has not changed much throughout the years since Mademoiselle Chanel stayed here with her German lover in war occupied Paris. Rumors have it that she was a Nazi spy, that she gave information to the German officer with whom she had a romantic liaison. It had never been proven but to the people of 1940 France, it was more than true.  
Mademoiselle Chanel lived here until her death in the 70’s. Miranda does not completely admire Chanel, in fact she things the fashion icon is often overvalued. She knows that the labor practices and tactics Chanel used were not humanitarian and she thinks Chanel was a very selfish person. None the less she recognizes the appeal she formed for her brand. There probably is not a person in the world who does not recognize the name Chanel or the fact that is very expensive. She also finds the allure of the Ritz charming and she wishes she could stay here forever.  
“Can I tell you something?” she interrupts the beautiful silence that was humming. Andrea nods.  
“I wish I could stay in this hotel forever, with you, “she says.  
Andrea lets her head fall on the editor’s shoulders, “I don’t care where we are as long as we’re together.”  
Dusk is falling the sky is painting in reds and blues and magentas. It is a privilege to watch nature paint the sky into a masterpiece. The colors blend behind the iconic Paris skyline, another highly recognizable brand.  
Andrea wants to tell Miranda she loves her again, but she does not want to interrupt the fixed gaze the older woman has out the balcony into the sky. The darkness keeps creeping in, making the reds into burgundy and the blues into greens, they become darker and darker until finally they give way to the black of the night. The black of the night adorned with manmade twinkles. 

They fly home the morning after everything is over in the company’s private jet and Andrea feels out of place. She sometimes feels out of place in Miranda’s world. She knows she has no reason to, she’s just as smart and educated as any of those people sitting down reading the papers as they glaze over London and Rome on the way to New York.  
“What’s wrong Andrea?” Miranda asks turning over to her.  
“Nothing, I just still need to get used to it all,” she whispers so no one else can hear her insecurities.  
“I think you look great leaning here with me, no one would doubt you belong with me,” the editor remarks.  
“With you yes … but,” Andrea starts but Miranda cuts her off, “this is me.”  
They both understand what she’s saying. Andrea nods and Miranda expertly guides the conversation somewhere else.  
“We’re landing by 4 in the evening. I’m going home to see the girls and I’m picking you up tomorrow. We’re driving to your parents.”  
“We’re driving?” Andrea asks. Miranda had asked her to let her buy the tickets and Andrea had figured it was because as always, they would be a private jet from someone or other.  
“I know a fantastic manor we can stay in in Pennsylvania and I thought to see another of my secret favorite spots.”  
Andrea smiles wistfully, “I would love that.”  
Miranda looks down at the white clouds and outlined by heavenly blue.  
“Good, I’m really trying Andrea,” she suddenly turns to the young brunette and Andrea catches something akin to desperation in her eyes. It wasn’t desperation, Andrea knew exactly what it was. It was loving someone so much, so completely, so consuming that it sometimes seemed surreal that the other person loved you back. Andrea knew the feeling all too well. Her dark chocolate pools meet the icy blue ones that blink away any semblance of tears.

“I know you are darling,” she answers. She knows opening up is hard for Miranda.  
They don’t speak much after that. The 8 -hour flight lands safely at JFK at the exact time it said it would. Again, they are conducted through a private hangar and an executive entrance Andrea did not even know existed. The sky over the Big Apple is grey and murky like rain is going to fall. The winds tastes of humidity and dirt, Andrea feels a sense of loss when Miranda drops her off at her own apartment and reminds her sternly to not oversleep. 

The drive to Ohio is not a long one. Time from New York to Ohio is slightly over 8 hours given that the traffic be kind.  
“Have you ever been to Ohio?” Andrea asks trying to joke.  
“I don’t think so,” Miranda answers honestly.  
“Now you can mark it off your bucket list,” she says.  
Miranda laughs,” thank you.”

The sky is clearer now though the wind whooshes past the Range Rover’s windows. Miranda is driving which is something that Andrea has never seen and just seeing her focus on the road, and grip the steering wheel is a lesson of elegance. 

“Andrea?” the editor sing songs the name.  
“Yes?”  
“What do your parent’s call us?” she asks. It’s a strange way to pose the question.  
“Girlfriends?” Andrea answers.  
“Oh … okay. I wasn’t sure what you would introduce me as.”  
“I can also say you’re the love of my life,” Andrea jokes and Miranda smiles.  
“Yes, we can do that mutually.”  
It’s a moment of contemplation. How ironic that this would happen on the way to visit her parents. That Andrea would confess so nonchalantly that Miranda was indeed the love of her life but even grander was to hear the well poised, private, editrex say that Andrea too was the love of her life.  
“You mean it?” Andrea asks.  
Miranda simply nods as she pulls into the driveway of a rustic yet impressive English style manor. One can say it is almost in the countryside, the rural side of Pennsylvania. It stands four stories high and at least with 100 rooms, it reminds Andrea from the house in that old movie her mother would make her watch … She tilts her head up trying to think.  
“Love Story,” she says out loud.  
“Ms. Priestly?” the attendant who walks up to meet the silver haired woman and take the keys from her hand asks.  
She nods, “We’ll have the suitcases up at the room.”  
The young man with fine green eyes smiles and turns to look at Andrea, he pulls his eyes down her figure. Miranda doesn’t miss the interaction, she grabs Andrea’s hand and interlaces their fingers. Andrea who has missed the whole scene still thinking about the movie from her childhood smiles at her lover and pull her hand up to kiss the older woman’s. The attendant walks away sure that he’s missed the opportunity of a tip and drives the expensive car to the assigned space.  
The manor is indeed fashioned in 1930’s art, the woods are dark and intricately marked. They contain scenes of life in the years leading up to the 30’s. The influence of Art Noveau is visible everywhere you turn and it reminds Andrea of Downtown Cleveland and the strong influence of the same type of art. The hotel receptionist is not shocked to see the famous lady and something makes Andrea think that she’ not the only elite to stay here, she doubts hard working Pennsylvanians could ever afford a night here. Breakfast at the manor is quite a culinary experience, everything is grown in the back garden and everything is locally sourced.

“The twins want you to come to dinner when we’re back,” Miranda says as they sit at the hotel veranda. They are simply staying here the night, nothing planned. After the madness of Paris Fashion Week and the awkwardness that will no doubt ensue as Miranda meets Andrea’s parents they needed a day in between.  
“I would love to go, I can’t wait to have dinner with them all the time.”  
Miranda smiles widely, her hand twitches for a second, “I talked to them about you moving in after this month, they are super exited.”  
“I was so afraid they would not be okay with it,” Andrea voices. She reaches out to grab Miranda’s hand and it’s a beautiful moment. She leans in to kiss her and suddenly the kiss grows until Miranda moans quietly and Andrea retreats for air.  
“Let’s go up to the room? What do you say?” she asks.  
“I think you took too long to ask.”

The final 4 hours of driving time turn into a version of karaoke and humming. They stop for gas and water and coffee and finally they make it home. Andrea lives in Columbus, the capital of Ohio. Her parents have owned that home since she was about five and they never thought about leaving. The neighborhood is middle upper class with her father making enough from working at a law firm downtown. The lawn is manicured and there are a few trees that give shade to the beige painted house. There are red roses meticulously trimmed outside the shuttered windows and the door is a dark opaque blue that contrasts with both the beige and the roses. There are light fixtures installed in the pathway leading to the house and the large living room window is opened with a beautiful floral arrangement visible. Miranda likes the aesthetics of the house.  
As they pull up Andrea’s father comes out to greet them. Richard is a good-natured sort of man, he’s got grey hair and pencil grey eyes. He’s slightly taller than Andrea and on his days off he always wears sport jerseys and jeans.  
“Andy! You’re here! Your mother was about to call,” he says.  
Andrea rushes to hug him, “there was some traffic.”  
“This must be …” he pauses. He is going to say, ‘girlfriend’ but he doesn’t know if the term would apply to someone of Miranda’s stature. He also slightly recognizes Miranda as Andy’s ex- boss.  
“This is Miranda my girlfriend,” she answers.  
“Miranda nice to meet you in person,” he quickly recovers and Miranda walks a few steps to reach the outstretched hand.  
“the pleasure is all mine,” she says as Andrea’s mother opens the door and comes to greet her oldest daughter.  
“An..d..” she stops on the second stone step from the house. She sees Miranda Priestly standing a few feet from her husband and her daughter.  
“Patrice, Andrea is here,” Richard voices.  
“Mom this is Mir..”  
Andrea is cut of my Patrice finishing the sentence for her, “Miranda Priestly.”  
Her honey colored eyes raise to meet shocked blue ones. Miranda doesn’t reply, doesn’t move, doesn’t utter a single word as Andrea repeats the introduction, assuming that her mother recognized the famous editor. She was sure she’d need a long talk about dating her boss later, but that would have to wait.  
“Miranda this is my mother, Patrice,” she says.  
“Miranda it’s been such a long time,” Patrice whispers more to herself than anyone present.


	15. Ohio Families

The older Sachs is dressed in camel colored cashmere pants, paired with a pearl blouse. Her hair that used to be the color of clover honey taken of the comb is now lighter and laced with grey, today she has it in simple bun, yet she still gives off the air of elegance she always has. She doesn’t move as she says those words and her gaze wanders from the woman she met years ago, a lifetime ago to her husband who stands quiet and confused about what has transcribed. Then she looks at her daughter standing so close to Miranda, how could this be?  
Miranda notices the questioning look in Patrice’s eyes, she would have recognized those honey colored eyes anywhere. All the feelings of years ago, the guarded anger and the pain bubble upwards when she sees Patrice living a picture- perfect life. Andrea’s father seems to be trying to figure out what the seconds of silence entail, his friendly smile has wavered a bit and he’s looking at his wife wiping his hands on his jeans. Miranda rests her gaze on Andrea, she does so because she can’t look at Patrice anymore without reproaching her something, only the things she wants to reproach are not what she imagined they would be. Today as she looks at Andrea looking at her mother she feels afraid that she’s going to lose Andrea, she wants to reproach Patrice the fact that she’s Andrea’s mother, she wants to grab the beautiful young brunette in front of her, hug her tightly and walk away from this scene.  
Andrea looks at her mother briefly, she is sure by the way her mother enunciated each syllable that there is more to their acquaintance, that they have met a long time ago. From where she’s standing she can see the elegance that Patrice still portrays, Andrea has always been aware of her socialite origins. When Andrea was young she used to spend summers in her grandparent’s estate in Rhode Island but after her grandmother died, she never went back. She was too young to ask and therefore the memories faded into oblivion. Here in the blue Ohio sky she’s reminded of it as if had a connection with the words her mother has uttered. Her father as always hasn’t said a word, he’s staring at all three of them forming conclusions in his head and Miranda clenches her jaw. Andrea sees the line of glances go from her mother, to her father, to her. She sees the blue of Miranda’s eyes grow and change shade, as if the diamonds were finally broken and shattered. They rest meeting her own gaze and Andrea can tell the array of emotions similar to the apartment in New York, the fear that comes from loving someone so much it hurts.  
Richard stands and watches all three women positioned perfectly apart. Always good on reading people in a court room, he sees the tension between Patrice and Miranda. His wife has not walked up to meet them, her eyes showed shock and surprise as she saw the silver haired editor. Her stance is still active and her hands went defensively into the wide pockets of her pants. Miranda on the other hand had stood completely still, her eyes had expressed a fast array of emotions that he could not grasp. Her lips pursed slightly, her jaw clenched for a second at her sides her hands clenched and unclenched softly until her gaze finally rested on Andrea and the calm seemed to seep through her. Richard saw the refusal of Miranda to keep looking at his wife as a sign that Patrice had done something to Miranda, something that had been forgiven but not forgotten. Andrea had looked initially at her mother, then at him as if seeking clarification and finally at Miranda. Andrea had a good poker face, she maintained the question in her eyes but did not move her hands or lips. She didn’t frown or press her lips, not until her gaze met Miranda’s and then a soft almost unperceivable smile drew her lips upwards. From that slight action Richard saw the deep connection between his daughter and the older woman, so did Patrice.

“You know each other?” Andrea finally asks breaking the encircling silence that had bogged them down for long seconds.  
Miranda nods before Patrice can say something, “yes a long time ago. I can’t believe you remember!” she laughs as if it had been the most inconsequential meeting in the world.  
“At a fashion show when I used to work at Harpers, like I said a long time ago,” Miranda moves to take her purse out of Andrea’s hands interlacing their fingers.  
“Should we go in?” she asks looking at Richard who springs into action as if he had been on pause. Patrice looks at her daughter clinging tightly to Miranda’s milky white hand as she turns on her heels to head back into the house.  
“Yes! Please come in Miranda, I’ll get the bags,” Richard volunteers staying back a second to grab the two carry-ons in the back seat.  
They four of them walk back into the house, Patrice hasn’t said a word yet and she leads the group into the open living room.  
“Would you like something to drink? Andrea? Miranda?” Patrice offers.  
Both women shake their head, “I think maybe we should freshen up, the drive was long mom.”  
“Of course, how about we get some drinks out and set up dinner while you two freshen up,” Richard jumps in.  
“Great, is it the guest room or my room?” Andrea asks.  
“We got the guest room ready, it’s bigger and your room has boxes still,” he answers.  
“Great,” she voices over as the two women head over to the bedroom.  
The room is large with light grey paint and offset accents on the corner of the room. Everything looks very expensive, the glass collections that grace the drawer are an exact match to the glasses in Andrea’s New York apartment.  
“You have a pair like that in your apartment, don’t you?” Miranda asks.  
Andrea nods, “it was a gift from grandma. The whole internal décor pretty much was.”  
“Why would you not tell me who your mother was?” Miranda reproaches though she had not meant to.  
“Woah, excuse me for not telling you all the details of my parents. I didn’t think they were important while we were trying to figure out our relationship. How was I supposed to know the great Miranda Priestly knew my mother from Ohio?” Andrea answers a little bothered but mostly confused by Miranda’s atypical reaction. This only permeates the thoughts that something not pretty happened between her mother and Miranda.  
“Your mother is not a typical Ohioan, but you’re right. There was no way to know…” she pauses.  
“I thought you said it was non-consequential?” Andrea asks.  
“It is,” Miranda answers pulling out a white cable knit sweater to change into.  
“It doesn’t seem like it,” Andrea continues, “I though you said you didn’t even remember?”  
“I didn’t.” Miranda takes of the black blouse she’s wearing exposing a vast expanse of smooth skin and a burgundy lace bra.  
Andrea stares at her, “Is everything going to be okay?”  
Miranda puts the sweater over her head, “whatever would make you think it isn’t?”  
“Your reaction, your reaction to my mother.”  
“It just reminded me a long time ago, Harpers was a hard time in my life. I rather not think about it,” Miranda answers and kisses Andrea on the cheek softly.  
“Now hurry up or your parents are going to get impatient.”

Andrea gets up begrudgingly, grabbing Miranda by the wrist and wrapping her in her arms. It’s sudden and she’s propelled to do it without thinking about it, she hugs her tightly, so tightly she’s sure Miranda can’t breathe; yet, she is not alone. She feels the other woman return the hug just as desperately. 

When they finally descend into the presence of her parents again, Patrice is sitting with legs crossed on the sectional sofa, with a glass of wine in her hand.  
“Andy honey, are you two ready for dinner?” she asks her large eyes look up at her daughter and trail at the woman who walks behind her.  
“We are famished,” she answers back.  
“Oh! good to know you haven’t’ forgotten the journalism vocabulary we paid for while writing blurbs about anti-wrinkle creams,” Patrice says as she gets up and catches up to the pair.  
“Mooom!” Andrea whines. Her mother had never once reproached her going back to Runway,  
to be fair her mother had never said a good or bad thing about her choices. They didn’t have the best communication to start. She actually only once said, “I don’t think working for Miranda is a good idea honey, I hear she had a bad reputation.”  
Andrea at the time dismissed her concern, now she wonders how her mother did not tell her she had met her once before. It troubles her, that is not the type of information you hide from your daughter.  
“Andrea works in editorial now, Patrice. She does amazing interview articles, perhaps you haven’t read them lately? She is very talented,” Miranda suddenly defends Andrea. To the simple by stander it would seem that Miranda believes more in Andrea than her own mother. Anyone who can pick up the cues sees that Patrice said it to insult Miranda and Miranda defends Andrea to do the same. Andrea sees it loud and clear, “you two don’t have to use me to say that you don’t like something.”  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Patrice purrs and sits down at the table, “we made asparagus and bacon I know it’s your favorite.”  
“It is, thanks,” Andrea answers following her mother and sitting down.

“So!” Richard finally talks setting down the plate of food for the table, “we won’t ask how you met but you two have to let us know how this happened.”  
He’s trying for both him and his wife. He does not know exactly what has happened but he knows it’s more than moralistic discomfort.  
“Well,” Andrea in similar fashion to her father answers, “Miranda came down one day to talk to me, it was so out of the blue. I could not stop thinking about her after that. I marched up to her office and brought her coffee.”  
“And then?” Richard keeps the conversation going. Patrice is on her third glass of wine, as she cuts the vegetables into pieces but does not eat them. Miranda cuts the steak asymmetrically and chews very slowly.  
“Well I asked her out to a play, but just as friends. We spent a whole year just as friends. Well I think she thought that, I was head over heels much sooner.”  
“Sooner?” Miranda asks.  
“Always,” Andrea smiles back at her.  
“Sounds like a story for a movie,” her father says.  
Patrice finishes the third glass of wine, “So Miranda what happens when the media finds out?”  
Richard coughs spitting out a half-chewed asparagus. “Patrice that’s not …”  
“I don’t want Andy to suffer later, aren’t we allowed as parents to ask?” she counters. This whole evening has not turned out like Andrea had hoped, not even remotely.  
“Mom, I think we can talk about that later, maybe not on the first dinner?” Andrea stares assertively.  
“When the media finds out, Patrice we will just keep doing what we do now. We will keep being there for each other and let the PR team handle the rest,” Miranda answers diplomatically and Andrea can see the Ice Queen mask slam into place.  
“How about you tell me about yourself and Richard, Andrea never told me where you met?”  
“I used to work for her father, I don’t know if Andrea has mentioned but Patrice’s father owns a huge silk empire.”  
Miranda nods.  
“I was in love with her since I saw her, but she was the daughter of my boss. I was a simply lawyer working for the firm. She was engaged to Derek the son of the COO. I never thought I’d get her. Then one day after she came back from a trip to Paris she broke up with him.”  
“Richard that’s boring,” Patrice coughs pouring one last glass of wine.  
“It’s so interesting,” Miranda smiles.  
“After a few months I asked her out, and we got married two months later. Whirlwind and strong ever since.”  
“After Paris, hhhmmm.” Miranda hums turning to Andrea who has become very quiet.  
“Seems like Paris is the place for everything darling,” she jokes to Andrea who passively smiles and nods.  
They retreat to bed after a round of awkward coffee and picture in the living room.  
“I have to head out to New York tomorrow morning,” she says to Andrea like she was telling her she was going for a job.  
“What?” Andrea turns from her suitcase with her pajamas in her hand.  
“I have something to do, I forgot Andrea.”  
“Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell is going on?” Andrea practically screams at Miranda.  
“What do you mean?”  
“What do I mean? You and my mother don’t talk all freaking night, except to mildly insult each other. You guys don’t speak a word about how you know each other and now you want to leave?”  
“I told you at a Chanel show, a very tasteless Chanel show. I don’t know what else you want me to tell you?” Miranda feels cornered. She has felt like that since the moment she saw Patrice call out her name. What was she supposed to do then? Is she supposed to tell Andrea the truth? Nothing happened between them, nothing happened because she had not let it. She feels like she’s against a wall and a sword. Keeping quiet only means she’s making this bigger.  
“I don’t believe it. This is not the behavior of someone who met briefly once at a show. Did my mother do something to you? Was it career based?”  
“Andrea stop it! This is ridiculous, you’re being paranoid. I just have an emergency at Runway.”  
“You know what, I’m going to sleep in my room. We can talk about this in the morning. I’m tired. Just remember it was you who said you would tell me everything!”  
The loud bang of the door on her way out is heard by everyone in the house. Miranda closes her eyes as the young woman leaves. She hates herself for not being brave enough to say the truth. Tears well up in her eyes, the redden as light eyes often do. She dabs at them and runs her hands over her hair. She takes a deep breath, and quickly packs everything neatly into a suitcase. She’d call her tomorrow morning when she landed in New York. It would be better if they talked about all this in New York. She felt safe there.

“So, you are leaving?” Patrice’s voice echoes in the dark living room. Miranda had not seen the Sachs matriarch but now that her eyes have adjusted she can make her out.  
“I think it’s best for today,” Miranda says even though she’s sure she owes this woman no explanations.  
“I think it’s best forever,” Patrice voices.  
“Excuse me?” Miranda asks not believing what she just heard.  
“I think you should leave Andy,” Patrice whispers as something soft thuds in the marble coffee table. Miranda can’t make out the object but she’s sure it’s a glass of wine.  
“You don’t get to tell me what to do, or who to be with!” Miranda whispers loudly aware that there are two other people in the house.  
Andrea has heard the voices, she could not sleep. She could not believe her mother just told Miranda that. She didn’t think that whatever her mother had against Miranda was so overwhelming as to not care about her daughter’s happiness. She’s about to jump in and second Miranda’s statement when Miranda speaks again.  
“You think everyone leaves the person they love like you did in Paris?”  
Andrea stops mid-step, the stairs are lined against the wall in a such a way that neither of the women in the living room can see her. She’s caught mid movement, she feels her heart constricts. The words rattle in her head, ‘in Paris?’ what does that mean? How did her mother leave Miranda if they only met for one show?  
“Don’t be ridiculous Miranda you knew what Paris was,” Patrice throws out cruelly.  
Miranda inhales and grabs the back of the sofa for support.  
“What was it?” she asks.  
“It was supposed to be an affair, Miranda nothing else,” Patrice answers coldly.  
Andrea can’t believe her mother didn’t tell her all of this when she started working for Miranda, how could she leave this whole page of her life out?  
“Was it?” Miranda asks, “it sure as hell didn’t seem so the morning when you showed up to say goodbye.”  
“It was supposed to be,” Patrice says less sure of herself now, “but you were too moralistic to sleep with me.”  
Andrea’s feels the tears as they stride down her cheeks, at least Miranda didn’t sleep with her mother. There would be no coming back from that. Her sits down on the steps now, she suddenly feels tired and dizzy. If she had told her mother over the phone that she was in love with Miranda what would she have said. And if Miranda agreed to walk away, would her mother ever tell her the truth?  
“You’re just as fucked up as you were in Paris, I can’t believe it took me all those years to see it,” Miranda licks her lips an shakes her head.  
“Do you even love him? Andrea’s father?” Miranda asks.  
Andrea does not want to hear the answer, she wants to run up the stairs but she knows she can’t, she is stuck here in the silence of invisibility.  
She doesn’t hear her mother answer for a long period of time, “I went to look for you at Harpers a while after Paris. I wanted to tell you that you were right, that we were meant for each other, that I had left my family’s obligations. You were gone.” Patrice’s words sound deflated as if she’s been waiting to say this all her life. As if she knew that at some point she’d have to confess this out loud.  
“I married Richard then, he’s a good man.”  
“I believe everything was for the best. It did take me a long time to stop being angry at you, perhaps because I was young and naïve and impressionable. The pretty socialite, picking me up in a Bentley and driving me all over Paris. Yes, I thought about you for a long time. You changed my life.”  
“Miranda …. I’m sorry,” her mother finally says and the apology seems to leave her freer.  
“Don’t be, I would not be where I am if it had not been for you. What happened in Paris taught me to believe only in myself, to show up for myself, to be strong and harsh and fight for what I wanted. I got my dream Patrice and two beautiful daughters,” she stops and takes a deep breath.  
Andrea wipes the tears, they have stopped. Miranda’s discourse is not what she had expected.  
“And then I got a beautiful, amazing, talented partner who loves me as much as I love her. And Patrice, Andrea has made me forget the anger I had for you.”  
“Don’t ruin her life Miranda, how do you think she’ll feel knowing what happened between us? Do you think she’s ever going to forget it?...”  
“Miranda,” Andrea steps out still clinging to the wall but visible to the two older women.  
“Andy?” her mother turns rapidly, “how long have …”  
“Long enough, were either of you going to tell me this? Today?” she questions.  
“I … I think it’s better if we discuss all of this in New York,” Miranda repeats and grabs the handle of her suitcase.  
“I got a taxi to the airport, you can drive the car back or I’ll send someone to do it,” she snaps going into Dragon Lady mode for a few seconds.  
“No, Miranda you can’t leave me, this is ridiculous!” Andrea states, “I need to sit down and I need an explanation.”  
Miranda walks toward the young brunette standing in tears at the base of the stairs. The lights are all still off and through the window the headlights of a car signal that the taxi has arrived. It honks.  
“And I will, I'll explain everything in New York,” Miranda says softly getting near the young woman, trying to tuck her long lock behind her ear. Andrea flinches without wanting to, Miranda retracts her hand. Patrice looks at the pair from her spot standing by the sofa and nods.  
“Miranda don’t run away. You lived many years hurt because someone, I didn’t know who, I guess now I do, ran away from you. Don’t leave,” her words are whispers now.  
“Or wait for me, I can change right now, don’t you love me?”  
“I love you more than you can imagine, but you should stay. It’s your father’s birthday party. Stay, we’ll talk about it in New York.”

Miranda walks briskly to the door and walks out, the door locks quietly. The large house is eerily quiet for what seems like an eternity and then Patrice speaks, “Seems like she didn’t learn the lesson.”  
“Don’t you fucking talk to me! How dare you!!” Andrea screams at her mother, she’s now advanced to the table that sits behind one of the sectionals. The table with the elephants made of ivory and porcelain.  
“Don’t you fucking dare to judge her,” she screams again. All the composure she had a second ago, left with Miranda and before she knows it the objects have flown of the table into the floor, with a loud clatter and crash.  
“What is going on here?” comes the booming voice of Richard as he turns on the lights to be met with a scene he had not imagined.


	16. The explanation

Somewhere between the lush green hills of Ohio and the jagged skyscrapers of New York Miranda decided to not fight for Andrea. It wasn’t that she did not love the young, intrepid, beautiful, brunette. No, it wasn’t that at all. She adored Andrea, in a few months Andrea has swooped in, flipped her life upside down and Miranda hadn’t been this happy in a long time. There were two main reasons for her change of heart, reasons that came as she sat sipping cognac in the few hours between the red painted barns of Columbus and the lights of the big apple. She didn’t want Andrea to decide between her mother or her lover, and how would Andrea live knowing that her partner was once in love with her mother? Would it be something that would wear them down with time? Miranda would rather pull the band aid and hurt now, than years down the road. The second reason was selfish. She didn’t want to have to fight, to explain, to hurt, to cry, to wonder and suffer and loose.   
It sounded selfish when she told the explanation to the woman in the mirror, her reflection judged her just as harshly as anyone would. Miranda was not one to give up. She never gave on important matters. In the board room Miranda was a force to be reckoned with, she never left without a deal closed, a model hired, a shoot redone. She always believed you should fight for your dreams. 

She shakes her head at the woman in the mirror again. The day had been exhausting. The flight had been short but the thoughts were heavy. Andrea hadn’t called which was to be expected but it also meant that she had done something incredibly selfish. She should have stayed and explained everything to Andrea, she should have taken the sobbing woman’s hand, helped her clean herself up and taken her to coffee. She should have told her the version of young 20- year old Miranda and she should have reassured her, that whatever semblance of love she had felt for the woman with the honey colored hair was nothing compared to what she felt for her. That was the other revelation she had on the plane, or rather the moment she saw Patrice. She had spent a whole life resenting her, thinking she loved her immensely. When in reality it had been half young love and half ego. The revelation was she loved Andrea with her heart and soul. She would love Andrea forever ,and yet fate was cruel indeed.  
She had considered staying but she believed maybe the explanation was not something she owned. Perhaps the explanation was better coming from her mother, perhaps it made more sense, perhaps it was better that way.

The arrival to the house had been uneventful, Cara had asked no questions, Roy had picked her up and the girls albeit incredulous had believed she had to come back for a work emergency. She had taken dinner alone, had Cara bring her up tea and showered very early. Sleep alluded her, sleep alluded her the moment her eye caught sight of a forgotten cardigan, Andrea had left. It was lavender, Vera Wang two springs ago. It was strewn across the armoire, Miranda could not see how Cara had missed it, but she had. Miranda had folded it neatly away, in a drawer and then she had turned off the lights and finally after a long, exhausting day cried.  
Not everyone could say they had seen the fashion queen cry. Andrea was one of the few, even before being anything other than a simple second assistant, she had seen her cry. Miranda didn’t know where things went from here, all she kept thinking about was that a few days ago they had been so happy. Andrea was supposed to move after they returned from Ohio. Miranda looks over at the cardigan that she can’t see, locked away in a drawer. She had the urge to take it out, to hold it, to inhale whatever scent is left of Andrea. She shakes her head, it would be too cliché, too much like those series her daughters like to watch. She slides down on the pillow, the tears still streaming down and eventually she falls asleep. 

She’s woken up by Jessica, the second maid, knocking at her door. Miranda glances at the clock, it’s a quarter after four.  
“Jessica? What is it?” she answers from the slit she has opened of the door.  
“Andrea, is here in the foyer, too see you? “  
Miranda does not understand. She left Andrea in Ohio for a purpose. Why is she in her foyer? Why at this hour.  
“Have her come up,” Miranda directs and a few moments later, she hears the quiet steps and a creaking of the door.  
“Andrea,” she breathes out. She’s now wrapped a flowered silk robe and donned slippers. She perched on the far edge of her bed, resting her back on one of the four wood pillars.  
“Just explain to me what happened,” Andrea asks. She looks tired, her eyes are red and puffy. She’s wearing dark jeans a black hoodie with no logo. Her hair is perfectly pulled into a high bun and though a little faded her make up is good.  
“I though it better if … your mother was the one to explain,” Miranda states.  
Andrea sits down unceremoniously on the opposite edge of the bed. She curls up like a child awaiting story time and look up at Miranda.  
“Just tell me, I won’t speak a word. I won’t comment, I won’t ask, I think I deserve to know,” her tone is so flat, so passive that it almost sends chills down Miranda’s spine.  
She calls Jessica, “can you bring up two cups of coffee?”  
Andrea takes a deep breath. The silence is deafening. It swallows them whole, it takes about 8 minutes for the coffee to arrive. It is served in a pearl porcelain tray, with white flowers and the cups are matching black.   
“I met her when I was younger than you, in Paris at a Chanel show,” she stops. She looks over at Andrea to see if the brunette has a witty remark. Andrea is listening.  
“I looked over, she caught my attention, I believe she was with her father. Later that night she asked me over to a party that her father held. That was the first day …”  
Miranda goes over the short time they spent in Paris, she tells her about the indecent proposal, her refusal, Patrice’s goodbye. Nothing is explained in detail, it’s a rough sketch of an explanation long overdue.  
Andrea lets her explain the day she was late to the Prada show, she lets her explain the months that followed. The way it changed her already grim outlook of love and how she left Harpers. Andrea is dying to ask what would have happened if her mother had found her in time. She is afraid the answer will be that they would be living together now, that they would have lived happily ever after, that this story would be vastly different.   
Miranda ends the memory with the exact opposite train of thought, “I meant what I say in Ohio, I’m glad she left. It gave me the strength to follow my dreams, it gave me the two most beautiful daughters I could have asked for. The truth is we were not meant to be, we would not have made each other happy, we weren’t truly in love. All of this gave me you,” Miranda turns to look at Andrea. Her blue eyes meet brow for a brief second before she turns away again, “the most beautiful love and that is my one regret in all of this.”  
Andrea tenses, “that she’s your mother and as much as I love you, we will never be possible.”  
Andrea sets the coffee cup down quietly on the bed side table, she presses her lips attempting to not cry.  
“So, is that what it is?” she asks.  
“darling,” Miranda rasps.  
“I … I want to. I wish we could. You’ll never look at me the same,” Miranda looks up at the young woman standing by her.  
“No, I won’t. I will look at you different every day, because every day I will love you more,” she looks down. There is nothing but rampart vulnerability in the ocean blue eyes.  
“And your mother?”  
“I … this is our story,” Andrea answers. She seems unsure for a brief fleeting moment.   
“Oh darling, if only…” Miranda starts getting up and trying to caress Andrea’s face.   
Andrea recoils, she knows she has no argument to convince Miranda.   
“thank you, for the explanation,” she stammers and walks out of the room.   
The moment Andrea leaves is the moment her phone rings.

 

If all this was part of a terrible movie script it could not be better timed. Leslie is on the line, asking Miranda something about Andrea. Miranda knows what this is, always the same timeline when a story of her life breaks out into the news. Her Public Relations team calls, they want to know the official statement, they minimize the press, Miranda sometimes reads Page six, the girls stay at home a few days, the journalists call and then at some point it all blows over and the people find something else to entertain their idle lives.   
“What should we tell them?” Leslie asks.  
“Who?” Miranda asks, she hasn’t paid attention. She is thinking that Andrea just walked out of her life, that after all they went through, the risks, the friendship, the Christmas Morning it ends like this.   
“the press,” Leslie states.  
How ironic, the relationship they are about to gossip about has just ended. What do they say now? She can read the headlines now; ‘Another lover driven away by the Dragon Lady, love chilled before it even started. Paris fling.’  
“I don’t know,” she answers. She won’t know at all today, she has no idea what they are reporting. She has no desire to make Leslie repeat the story.  
“We can ask Andrea, we’ll do that,” Leslie state and hangs up.  
“No, no, don’t do that…” Miranda orders but Leslie has hung up.


	17. The Seasons 09'

Andrea answers the phone because she’s not really paying attention. She doesn’t reflect about the fact that Leslie Buchner’s number is flashing on her screen, she is more preoccupied with the fact that Miranda implied it was over, she’s still wondering if her mother will ever come give her an explanation, she’s worried about having lied to her father for the first time in her life. 

When Richard Sachs turned on the light and the room flooded in soft yellow the true effect of what had just happened was felt. Andrea realized that her mother had not gone to bed, she was still wearing the same camel colored pants and her hair was still up in a bun. There was an almost finished bottle of wine on the table and a glass next to it. Her mother looked pretty enough by the helping light and she could see how vastly different they were. Andrea had always looked more like her father, large brown eyes and soft brown hair. At this moment in time neither featured favored her, she was standing there with mascara streaks on her cheeks that could not hide the tears and an array of broken porcelain at her feet. The pieces had scattered far and wide in the living room and Richard glided his head along the line of fire.  
“Andrea? Patrice?” he asked expecting an explanation. Andrea felt her blood turn cold, panic ensued. What does she do now? 

“Andrea and Miranda had a fight,” her mother says. It is technically true. Andrea and Miranda had fought, they were at odds.  
“Yes, Miranda had to leave urgently for work. We got mad. I lost it,” Andrea lies through gritted teeth. Tears come afloat again.  
“Oh Andy, I’m sure it’s not that serious,” her father closes in and hugs her.  
“Is that why you broke the elephants?” he jokes.  
“I think it’s over,” Andrea sobs into her father’s embrace. Comfort always does that to her, it makes her emotional. In that sense, she’s unlike her mother.  
“That can’t be, who would not want you? She’s lucky to have someone like you,” he bends away and dries his daughter’s tears. Although he would never admit it in from of Leila, Andrea had always been his favorite. Not just because she looked like him but because she was like him. She was kind, and soft and forgiving. Leila was exactly like her mother, with light brown eyes and light brown hair and calculating personalities.  
“Richard why don’t you make some tea, I’ll pick up the pieces later,” Patrice directs him and as always, he nods and gives Andrea a kiss on the cheek. Andrea can’t believe the explanation will suffice, she is sure he’s going to ask more later.  
“Are you going to tell me what on Earth happened in Paris?” Andrea demands in a whisper getting close to her mother.  
Patrice shakes her head, “It’s not worth recounting, it is what it is.”  
“And all these years later? Does Dad know?” the question is redundant.  
Her mother shakes her head, “Andrea you’re so young, you’re being capricious. That woman is not the love of your life. She’s …”  
“Save it, I don’t want to know what you think unless you’re going to give me an explanation.”  
She marches up the stairs into the guest room and waits for the city to wake up, and the sun to rise. She doesn’t sleep much, she hears the hushed voices of her parent’s and the arrival of Leila. She hears her father knock at the door, “Andy?”  
“Come in dad,” she says.  
He’s brought her tear, steaming chamomile tea. The gesture reminds her of Miranda, “I’m sorry it happened on your birthday weekend.”  
“Oh! who cares, your mother wanted this party… Honey if you feel that you need to leave, go. I know how you feel for her. She may not be the ideal partner I would have wanted for you,” he starts.  
“Dad..”  
“But… she has been kind to you, she is responsible, and good looking and she seems to love you too,” he inhales, “and she definitely has a good career.”  
Andrea laughs and he joins, “I won’t have to worry about you starving, so go. Go mend this,” he says.  
“I don’t think it can be mended,” she whispers.  
He dries a tear again, “The past is the past Andrea, it holds no power over us, unless we let it. Tell her that and then write your own story with her,” he gets up before she can ask why he is telling her that. As if he knew, but he could not? Could he?

All those thoughts are still reeling on her mind when she answers Leslie’s call. Leslie is the only person that dares to contradict Miranda. Perhaps it’s her harsh, direct and to the point personality that is a match to Miranda’s, perhaps she has to so that the PR department can run correctly, or maybe it’s because she has known Miranda for all her tenure as Editor in Chief. Andrea doesn’t know the reason why their relationship works but it does. Leslie rebukes Miranda, Miranda glares her down, Leslie repeats what is to be done, Miranda nods and they both walk away. 

“Are you okay with our vantage point?” Leslie asks. She has just explained the front- page picture in the social pages of the New York times, the two page article and the online article by the Sun. “I’m sure all the other publications will follow, it’s early on Sunday no real damage until tomorrow,” the PR director had explained.  
“Leslie, I don’t think we’re going to go on with this,” Andrea’s words are slow and strung together. She’s looking at child run across the street.  
“Oh, Miranda didn’t mention …” Leslie stops.  
“It just happened ...” Andrea states.  
“I just spoke to her,” she answers riskily, “does she know?”  
“I would never willingly leave, let’s just say that,” Andrea offers not wanting to blame anyone.  
“Oh,” Leslie answers for a second time. It makes sense why Miranda was so different this morning, why there was no plan from her, no banter.  
“We will say, you two have decided to take everything slow. It will account if the press does not see you two together, and if they do it will account for that too,” she pauses.  
Andrea is about to hang up, she thinks the conversation is done.  
“We will chuck it to Miranda’s various compromises with post fashion week and you launching a new career.”  
“I trust you,” Andrea says.  
“Andy?” Leslie asks, “Do you truly love her?”  
“yes,” she answers.  
“For what it’s worth, Miranda can be pretty hard to see the love other people have for her. I think she loves you too.”  
Leslie’s words make Andrea tear up again, “thank you.”  
The day is has been very long, the longest in her life. After she went to her room her sister arrived.  
“Father told me what happened?”  
“I feel bad that it happened today,” Andrea had told Leila.  
“Why are you here? You should go to New York dad will understand.”  
Andrea shook her head, she had a few hours of restless sleep. “I don’t think it will help. Can I tell you a secret?”  
Her sister nods, “you can’t tell a soul. Not dad, not mom. You can’t tell anyone.”  
“I’ll help you hide the body,” Leila jokes.  
Andrea smiles, her sister could always make her laugh. “Promise me!”  
She does and Andrea tells her everything. It’s not hard for Leila to believe it, “wow.”  
They talk about their childhood, their grandparent’s and then Leila tries again, “I still think you should go, it’s fucking Miranda Priestly we’re talking about here. Go get an explanation … do it now!”  
Andrea showers and takes the Rover to New York. She stops for coffee and when she finally gets to Miranda it’s sometime morning. 

Miranda woke up a few hours after the call with Leslie, to be met by two things. The keys to the Range Rover on her foyer table and the New York times entertainment pages folded neatly by Cara on her coffee tray.  
“Bloody hell,” she whispers to herself in her rarely used English accent. 

“taking it slow,” she read an email report from Leslie. Is that what Andrea had said? She’s holding the keys to the Range Rover still. She knows come Monday hell will break loose. The girls come bouncing down the stairs a second later and Miranda does the unexpected.  
“How would you girls like to go on holiday to see Grandma?”  
The girls are taken back, “I thought you had a work emergency?” the say.  
“It’s solved,” Miranda lies.  
“In a day? Is Andrea coming?”  
Carline eyes the pictures on the newspaper.  
“Are you retracting from Andrea?” Caroline asks.  
“No she’s not coming, she has a job here,” Miranda avoids the answer to her daughters curios minds.  
“We know you mom, what happened with Andy?”  
“Miss Sachs in on the phone,” Cara interrupts the conversation and Miranda smiles, “nothing, see she’s calling. Now Cara help the girls pack for London. Nothing huge, I can always buy them things there.”

“Miranda?” Andrea sounds so small and insecure on the phone.  
“An-dre-a,” Miranda almost whispers into the phone.  
“I told Leslie,” she stops.  
“taking it slow?” Miranda asks.  
“Something like that,” suddenly Andrea doesn’t know why she called.  
“I’m leaving for London,” Miranda doesn’t know why she’s telling her.  
“I mean it Miranda, I will wait for you,” Andrea tries again.  
“Don’t…” Miranda is about to say something but Andrea hangs up the phone. That silly girl.

 

The days in London pass by idly, they go from days to a few weeks. Miranda stays in her flat near the old town. She doesn’t go out and makes a concise effort to not follow the news or Andrea’s life. She has instructed Leslie to comment that she will be giving no interviews and that neither her nor Andrea will comment on the nature of their relationship. Miranda mostly works on the magazine while her daughters visit their grandmother.  
On the last Monday, she’s programed to stay in London, her mother comes knocking at the door.  
It is quite the surprising visit, they have not talked in years. Her mother has always remained the same middle class, conservative Jewish she was when Miranda was growing up. She thought that her mother would never want to see her again after the articles of her and Andrea. Same sex partners is not within the teaching of the Torah.  
“Mira,” her mother speaks soft and passively as she always has. In a way her mother is very like Miranda. She speaks the same way, softly and expecting everyone to listen, her eyes are also pools of pristine blue and her high check structure mimics Miranda’s. She’s dressed modestly in a navy- blue dress and a shawl typical lf Hebrew communities. Still the older matriarch looks commanding.  
“Mother,” Miranda answers coldly as they sit to wait for the maid to bring tea.  
“I am sorry to visit un-announced but I head from the girls you were leaving at the end of the week and I didn’t want to leave without … seeing you.”  
Miranda is sure that a reprimand will follow, that her mother will over rose tea and yeast free biscuits will tell her the most honest opinion of how she’s insulting God.  
“The girls are more beautiful every day, I’m glad you let them come.”  
“They want to know their grandmother,” Miranda answers.  
“Well you’ve done a great job, aside from what I may think, of raising them.”  
“Thank you, Mother,” Miranda inhales.  
“I wanted to see you Mira, it’s been …”  
“A long time,” Miranda finishes the sentence for her. Since I got my first divorce.”  
“That’s right, I had no right to dictate your life,” her mother says.  
“I ..” Miranda has no comeback.  
“I’m old Miranda, old enough to have lived way past my time. I can see death loom around the corner,” she starts.  
“Nonsense,” Miranda tries.  
“I don’t want to die without telling you how proud I am of you. I never said it, I am very proud of everything you’ve done. I am proud of how you rose above our family. How famous and brilliant you are, proud of the life you created for the girls. Proud of how beautiful and independent you are. Most of all how strong you’ve been to follow your dreams and … your heart.”  
Miranda doesn’t know what to answer. Acceptance from her mother was not something she’d ever though she would get.  
“Mom,” she tries to say but it comes out so soft it’s not audible.  
“Caroline told me about her … she told me how nice she is to them. She said you always smile when she’s there, and they love spending time with her.”  
Miranda gulps the tea quickly. She bites her lips, there is silence as they both bite the cookies provided.  
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that while my faith does not allow me to approve … I just want you to know she sounds good for you. I’d like to meet her … someday … if you like.”  
A single tear falls from Miranda, she is at a complete loss of words. The past month has been a complete train wreck. She’s found and lost so much and now her mother is telling her that want to meet Andrea.  
“I know I can’t repair all the years of bad … but I’d like to try on the little time I have on this Earth to mend it,” she looks up at Miranda. Identical faces only differing by the wrinkles that age causes stare across the shiny table.  
“What do you say? Do you take me up on the offer?” the older woman asks.  
Miranda nods, “I’d like to.”

She returns to New York still completely confused, comforted only by the fact the small frenzy of attention has died. The openness of the relationship and the lack of sightings had caused the media to die down. Nothing to speculate if they don’t deny it. Leslie had told the basics of the story, “Andrea missed Runway after leaving, and unlikely friendship and mentorship formed at first until both realized there was more. Miranda wanted to go slow for the sake of the twins and their careers. Both are busy with their own lives and in no hurry to push anything along.”  
There had been pictures of them at the Ritz in Paris, and at a nearby coffee shop; yet most had been old stock of them the first time in Paris as a working relationship. 

“You don’t do slow,” Nigel sashays into her office on the second day of her return.  
“Excuse me?” she turns to glare at him.  
“Six, you and six on a slow track? What happened?” he asks.  
“I have no idea what you’re taking about and unless you have the prints to the layout like I asked yesterday I have no need for you,” she turns back to her desk.  
“Six quit the day after that article came out,” he announces.  
She already knew that, she had not asked why or where she was going. She had not talked to Andrea since before London.  
“She left to freelance, can you imagine that? Six freelancing? She’s going to starve and it’s going to be your fault.”  
“I doubt it, her family trust fund him stop it,” she mouths and realizes she has said too much.  
“Oh! Pray tell,” he sits down and waits for Miranda to say more.  
“I need those prints by lunch and if you don’t have them, you may want to call Andrea and ask her for some freelancing tips,” she deadpans as she gets up and exits the office as she always does in a flash of ‘coat, purse’ and a trail of Chanel no. 5.

There are two articles she finds by Andrea Sachs, one on ‘Fellow traveler,” about Paris.  
“how original, Andrea,” she thinks to herself as she read it. And the other in the Washington Post life section. Something about dealing with college loans and first jobs.  
Again, Miranda shakes her head. The articles are posted the week she left for London and she doubts they paid the rent. What is Andrea living of? She thinks of the expensive glasses in her apartment. Could she have gone to grandpa? She doubts Andrea is the type.  
What if Andrea really is having a hard time, what kind of …. Would she be. Doesn’t know what adjective to use. What kind of ex-lover would she be? She sends Roy to visit Andrea, if a visit can be described as leaving the keys to the Range Rover along with a title and a calling card with the concierge. 

She doesn’t hear back from Andrea. The slow churn of the season passes over the city that never sleeps. The glory of spring and flowers in Central Park is overtaken by the insufferable heat of summer. Tourist groups blocking the major attractions and the twins spending the week at the Hamptons house. They had stopped asking about Andrea, though they resented Miranda slightly for driving her away. Then the colorful autumn foliage takes over the city, perhaps the most beautiful season to come along in New York. The smell of rain and dirt and the magic of orange and yellow paint the streets. It isn’t until the holidays come around once again that Miranda feels the complete loss of Andrea. She has stayed in contact with her mother, 

“will you ever bring her by?” Her mother has asked a few times. Miranda had replied that she was busy. She decorates the house like she always does, has the designer change the color this year and the caterer makes the same amazing food as always for the party. There is no one to laugh with over the intricate invitations that arrive for her every year and no one to offer coffee on Thanksgiving. 

“mom?” Cassidy comes by after the annual holiday party.  
“We miss her, what happened?”  
Miranda can’t believe that after knowing Andrea for only a few months they keep asksing.  
“Life Bobbsey, adults don’t always have all the control in their hands.”  
“Did you stop loving her?” she asks.  
Miranda shakes her head, it is pinned in a curly up-do and accompanied by a silver loop earings that shake as she moves.  
“Did she stop loving you?” she proves again.  
“then I don’t understand what’s stopping you?” the young teenage girl says as if she had all the wisdom in the world. She speaks like that because she does, she has all the wisdom in the world.


	18. Interlude

It’s ironic how good both of them become at playing pretend. Miranda is shamelessly photographed on dates, horse races and the occasional weekend trip. She always looks as if she’s stepped out of a photoshoot and five makeup - artists have been slaving away to make her look flawless. Her gowns are taken in just the right light, the casual attire accompanied by the best jewels, her hair has the perfect wave and her lips done hues according to the clothes. If one didn’t know better they could argue it was an offstage theater production. Andrea wanted to believe it was publicity, the magazine had slightly fallen after their Paris romance had been smothered over quickly like church candles after mass. The partners Miranda chooses are flashy wall street investors, television producers and a few businessmen. None are younger than her and all are very good looking. It was as if Miranda was posing for the life section every week.

Andrea put up her own act reaching out to her grandfather and asking for help. If her mother had betrayed her trust and broken her world then she had no reason to stay away from her grandfather. If hard work and talent had not gotten her very far then she’d rely on the family’s old money to help her along the way. It wasn’t at all like her, it wen again the grain of her values, her need for fairness and her hope for equality but so did loosing Miranda, so did loosing trust in her mother, so did lying to her father. She was almost certain that he would help, on various occasions he had reached out to try and form a relationship with her. She was his eldest granddaughter, the three sons had provided only three heirs all of them men. Uncle Henry had died soon after Patrice left the family estate, Jordan had married twice and had a 12-year old boy and Erick the most likely to take over the old man had three children, two boys and a girl who had passed away at two. When Andrea was about 12 her grandfather had sent tickets for her to go to Paris and Rome with him, her mother had opposed. At 16 he had tried again offering to throw a party in Rhode Island to have her meet society’s best, again her mother had declined. Finally, after her graduation he had offered to pay for all her college, her parents had declined again. In lieu of all the denied offers, Robert Ellis had sent an expensive set of crystal vases to decorate Andrea’s apartment. She had always kept them, though they did not fit in with her cheap furniture. 

When she called the see if she could visit him, the immediate answer had been yes. It had been followed by a first-class ticket to his home, and a chauffeur to pick her up. The state which she still remembered from her summers as a child was unchanged, the black iron gates were still outlined in gold. The family symbols still etched on said gate and the gardens that surrounded. There were still large menacing trees behind the main 25 room house which was separated into two wings by a glass corridor and a waterfall wall. 

“It’s still as beautiful as I remember,” was the first thing she says as she sits across her grandfather who she has not seen in over 15 years.  
“I’m just older than you remember, right?” he jokes. She had forgotten his loud, charismatic voice and his green sparkling eyes.  
“Yes, a little, but so I’m I,” she says as the butler brings over the tea in china cups and asks how many sugars. Everything is very formal and elegant as it tends to be in old families of money. Almost as if she was watching a documentary about tea with Rockefeller of something akin.  
“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my granddaughter?” he asks, “Has your mother finally spoken well of me?”  
She laughs nervously, “you don’t look much like her, dare I say you turned out prettier. Maybe that Richard guy was a good choice after all. How is he?”  
“Dad? He’s good,” she chokes out.  
“Tell me about her, grandpa? Tell me about your relationship with my mother? Why did she stop talking to you?”

He shifts in his seat, “that is a complicated conversation Andrea, is that what you came for?”  
She shakes her head slightly, “No. I came for two main things, and I hope you can help me with both.”  
“Go on,” he says.  
She looks around the room, there is a large picture of the Madonna hanging to the right of the beautiful Louis XV furniture that adorns the sitting area.  
“I want to get to know you, my family. I don’t know why my mother has stopped us from that, specially after Gran died. I just want to know a little about myself.”  
“And…” he asks again. He knows she needs his help.  
“I need your help, I quit my job. I don’t want help from my parent’s. I am not asking for free money, I want to work for you. I want to work for the family business.”

The request was not unexpected for the older man, he sipped from his tea and nodded. He was accustomed to people asking him for favors. He usually denied all of them. After Patrice left the family over 24 years ago, he had withdrawn away from the public eye. When his wife died he stopped holding Fashion week galas and mentorships. He usually told opportunist people that he could not help them, he would not do that to Andrea. There was sincerity in her eyes and her tone, she would have been part of the business had her mother not taken them all away.

He nods again, “Very well Andrea if you want to know about the family we must know about you,” he pauses.  
He can tell she’s getting to give him the interview answer, that is not what he’s looking for, “What happened with the editor form Runway?”  
She blushes a deep crimson and she is almost sure that this will end his help. After all didn’t he turn his back on his mother upon finding out that she liked women?  
“It seems our fates were decided long before we met,” she answers melancholy hoping the philosophical answer will be enough. Her grandfather is undeterred, “That my dear Andrea is not something an Ellis would say, we make our own fate.”  
She doesn’t know what he means.  
“Did you do it because of your mother? Or did your mother ask you leave her?”  
She almost chokes on the tea. Her grandfather is full of surprises. How could he possibly know?  
“I never forget a name, specially not Miranda’s.”  
“You met her?” Andrea asks.  
“Once, at a party, your mother brought her.”  
Andrea nods, “were you going to force her to marry to keep appearances?”  
Her grandfather hunches forward as if he was going to tell her a secret, “stay for dinner. That sounds like a conversation we must have over dinner.”  
She had not planned on staying, her grandfather had a reputation far worse than Miranda could ever hope for.  
“I have to go to the hotel,” she says.  
“Nonsense,” I had the chauffer put your suitcase in your room.”  
“My room?” she asks and it’s all coming back, a vague memory of summers in a room overlooking the estates lake.  
“Are you staying the weekend?” there is hope in his voice.  
She nods, there is nothing waiting for her in New York.  
Dinner is an elegant affair, she puts on black dress per the maid’s advice and though it’s is just the two of them, the maid and the butler serve everything as if they lived in an English state fit for royalty. Andrea can almost see Mr. Darcy in the background. The conversation keeps her entertained, her grandfather explains the story from his point of view, not that she will ever get her mother’s version. It turns out her mother chose to get engaged to the man her family approved of, but there was no pressure to get married. The older Ellis does admit to have met Miranda as a young and wide-eyed jr. editor and thinking that Patrice was smitten. He had no idea that a few days later as they landed in Rhode Island she would break the engagement and storm into his office demanding that he let her date Miranda. His words have been those of surprise but after a day, he had offered a truce. She was to go back to Paris, and there she could date whoever she wanted. The offer let it be understood that she could take Miranda.  
“It was a different time an open relationship would have damaged the company!” he booms more to himself than Andrea. She understands society is cruel.  
“Not my proudest moment, but your mother agreed.”  
Andrea is surprised, “why did she marry my father?”  
“I never knew,” again he seems confused and he tell her how she came back a few months later, threw a picture of a wedding chapel at his desk and told him she had married one do the corporate lawyers. He was confused, annoyed and very upset. His only daughter, the apple of his eyes had gone and married without telling them. He had asked her about Miranda, about the Paris proposal and all he was met with was reproaches. She walked out that day moved out of the state and refused to answer them for months. When they found out that she was pregnant with Andrea they visited.  
“She let us help her because of you,” he pauses, “we bought them the house. She told me that she did not want to fight for the company, she didn’t want to be in competition with her brothers. I think she married your father to keep her own appearances."  
“It was Miranda who asked me to leave,” Andrea confesses trying to stop the tears coming down from her cheeks.  
Robert Ellis is not a sentimental man, “I want you to fly out with me to Boston, we have the main offices there. We don’t concentrate on just silk, there a varies textiles being imported. More importantly we have a varied portfolio of stocks, and investment as well as partnerships. What are you doing for the next three months?”

 

Ryan is probably the only one from her array of page six romances that she truly likes. She’s known Ryan for many years, they have been friends since before she married.  
“Why the sudden affinity to dine with me?” He questions after various dinners have passed.  
“I just needed some company, you didn’t have to agree,” she reproaches.  
“No need for the defensive Miranda, now tell me what happened with your assistant?”  
“Nothing happened,” she looks up. She hasn’t talked about Andrea since the last time Caroline asked a few months ago.  
“Honestly Miranda? I’ve known you for longer than you’ve been Miranda Priestly, she could not have been another paparazzi romance,” he states biting into his steak.  
“Paparazzi romance?” she asks eyebrow raised.  
“Staged, don’t play naïve … miss big time fashion editor,” he smiles and she smiles back.  
“I don’t want to talk about it, Ryan,” she finally says her tone is flat yet sad.  
“Did you really love her? I didn’t know you…” he stops.  
She knows what he’s going to say, “was a lesbian?” The way she finishes the sentence for him is condescending at best. He bites his lip, “I didn’t mean it …”  
“I know,” she says expertly piling pasta on a fork and taking a bite. He waits while she finishes.  
“No one ever does, now you know,” she takes a deep breath, “so tell me is your ex-wife still dating that band leader?” she asks and he knows the subject is done.  
She doesn’t talk about Andrea with Ryan but on the way home she thinks of her again. It has been over three months since she last talked about her with the twins. She can’t still can’t believe how everything happened. Of all the millions of people in New York, of all the assistants she has had, what was the chance that the person she would fall in love with would end up being the daughter of Patrice. She doesn’t want to, not anymore but the tears don’t obey her. They fall showing how deeply she still cares for the young woman. Half of her wishes Andrea had stayed at the Mirror, that she had become a journalist and that they would not have fallen in love. She was fine before her, why can’t she be fine now? The answer is one she knows well, because Andrea was special, different, because Andrea had brought into her life peace and light and love. She loves Andrea like she has never loved anyone else and in a way it makes her feel as if she were betraying Patrice, but that is a stupid notion.  
“Miranda?” she is brought back to reality by Roy opening the door for her, she shakes her head slightly and nods.  
She hasn’t heard a thing about Andrea since she quit Runway for the second time. She understands completely, though their departments did not have to communicate in general, Andrea wanted to move up and eventually she would have had to work with her. She’s sure it would have been painful for both of them. She’s sure she would have caved in at the first touch of her hand, she’s sure she would have let Andrea stay forever. The thought of Andrea finding someone else conflicts her, she feels anger and sadness at the same time. What if Andrea falls in love with someone else, with someone younger, someone prettier, someone who doesn’t make her life so complicated? She wants that for Andrea, she really does. She want’s Andrea to be happy, but it would break her heart. If she’s honest she want’s Andrea to love only her forever, she wants to know that even far apart they will always love each other.


	19. Boston 2011

Andrea has never been materialistic, monetary recompense has never been her sole motivator in life; yet, she has to admit the new car makes her feel like a different person. Perhaps, it’s not just the car, perhaps she is a different person. The three months her grandfather made her vow to quickly turned to four and five and eight. She’d learned to not only like her grandfather but respect him as a person, as a leader and as family. Her only regret now is not having spent more time with both her grandparents as a child. Deep inside she knows there is still an explanation missing and she will get it one day from her mother or from Robert Ellis. Today however, is not the day. Today she has convinced her grandfather to let her drive from the few hours from Brescia to Rome. They had attended a fashion event for Prada out in Milan and then traveled to see a close family friend in the Lombardy region.  
Here Andrea has finally agreed to buy something extravagant with her new account, a Lamborghini. The car zooms down the nearly empty Italian country side, it whirls at a lesser speed than it is capable to please her grandfather. The expensive car is black with red stripes and wheel caps that would cost more than Andrea’s entire apartment back in the states.  
She loves having anything and everything at her fingertips, yet she still feels uncomfortable at times. Wealth is something that everyone always wants and no one ever realizes how out of place it can make you feel. Her grandfather talks about some event they have to attend in Rome and the new department Andy will head once they return to Boston. He’s insisted on having her use his apartment to stay in Boston, since she won’t let him buy her a new one.  
She’s not sure she wants to stay in Boston but she does not want to return to New York either, not for now. So, she’s agreed to use his posh apartment, and accompany the movers to pick out only important belongings from her New York apartment that has been paid only so she can go pick up her things. Her grandfather is explaining something about the Communications department which she will head, “it’s a logical place to start with your communication background.”  
She had agreed. She’s not paying attention to what he’s saying. She’s running her hand through her hair, as the breeze plays with it, she’s admiring the beautiful rolling hills and houses that dot the landscape. Here she is a different person, someone who the Andrea back home would not recognize. She wonders about Miranda everyday she turns to ask her grandfather when they are flying home as she sees it. She sees the semi-truck losing control on the crossway. She sees it in slow motion, yet it’s too fast to stop the car, she hears the loud crash before she feels the impact. It’s loud, louder than she’s ever heard something crash. The brakes reel and the tires burn against the pavement. The familiar smell of burning rubber still reaches her, and a blind, illustrious flash blinds her. She doesn’t see her life flash before her eyes, she only feels panic and regrets wash over her, and all she can think about is the last few months until she can’t think anymore.  
It is a movie reel in reverse, from the moment they landed in Italy to the day she walked out of Miranda’s townhouse. The months in between have melancholy but full of so much she never knew she was missing. Boston had been a lesson in business. She had started out with a few tours of the corporate offices as well as some of the warehouses and manufacturing plants. Her grandfather had accompanied her to the main ones, but on other times she was placed in the care of her two older cousins. Erick was a playboy womanizer who turned out to be fun and inviting, he was the eldest son of her uncle who also bore the same name and Blake was the youngest at 28 he was engaged and the quiet one of the two. He had graduated from Harvard Law and worked mostly with the legal affairs of the company. Therese his fiancé was a darling of New York society who he had met while at Harvard.  
“Andrea or Andy?” Erick had asked as he shook hands with her, they met at the corporate office the first day Robert Ellis decided to not attend a tour.  
“Andrea is fine,” she said in her best grown up voice.  
“Andrea, it is,” he smiled.  
He was polite enough and answered all her questions, “what makes you want to come to the business?” he asks.  
“Well, I am part of the family,” she answers half defensively. She’s wearing Manolo pumps and a typical Chanel suit.  
“You don’t look like your mother very much,” he answers, “you are very beautiful.”  
She nods, “thank you.”  
“I think we should take you out to see the real Boston, what do you say?”  
Blake had joined, “I think we should. She’s missed the real fun, we have to do it now!”  
Suddenly she feels as if she was being pressured by a college roommate, “I lived in New York, I’m sure I’ve seen my share of fun.”  
They nod in agreement, “true, but you haven’t had an Ellis party …”  
They are convincing enough, “after all what good is money if not to spend?”  
She goes home to change, they pick her up at 9. The trio starts with dinner at a hip and elegant bar. They move to a few VIP bars ending up very early into the morning at a club. The music is loud, the cocktail waitress is hot and the drinks in between notes of elderflower and champagne very strong. The evening has been fun and light, they have gotten to know about each other and they have made her feel welcomed.  
“whatever happened between out parent’s is not something we want to continue,” Blake had said and they all toasted to that. Here way past midnight, with the beat of the music and the alcohol cursing through their veins the question is inevitable, “so Andrea, are you over the editor yet?”  
She blushes slightly and sips, “that’s not something I want to talk about.” She manages to say that without a slur in her voice.  
“that means no,” Erick nods drunkenly.  
“We’re going to introduce you to someone,” Blake smiles.  
Erick turns to his brother, “who?”  
“Therese’s cousin, she’s gorgeous,” he says drinking something dark and strong.  
“I am not …” she’s about to say she’s not looking for someone but is cut off.  
“you my dear cousin are too beautiful to be pining for someone, although she’s pretty hot,” they say.  
“Oh my!” she buries her face in her hands.  
“One more round!” they say as the demure pixie cut waitress whirls around and nods, “what’s your type? How about that waitress?”  
“Shut up or I’m leaving” she says.  
“Thank you darling, what’s your name?” Blake asks the young waitress, she smiles probably getting that same question asked all night.  
“Regina, Gina for short,” she has the answer memorized.  
“Well Regina how would you like to give my cousin here your number?”  
The waitress laughs, she looks Andrea over, “they are dumb, you don’t have to,” Andrea clarifies.  
“She’s shy. I’m Erick Ellis, this is Blake and that is Andrea,” he tries again.  
The waitress is leaning over to hear them over the loud music, “I would love to Andrea.”  
The number is scribbled over on an order pad, “I’m off tomorrow.”  
She leaves as the two men whoop softly and Andrea throws a piece of ice at them.  
“That is how it’s done,” Erick explains.  
“I can’t believe you did that, I don’t want to go out with anyone.”  
“I would go out with her, but she clearly liked you,” he looks Andrea up and down.  
“The tux looks definitely suits you.”  
“Ugh!!! I’m going home!” Andrea gets up playfully annoyed and the two of them follow throwing bills down on the table before she decides to leave them without a chauffeur.  
The three of them get along very well, and Therese shows Andrea the where and who to shop of Boston. She stays for two months, she finds the city enchanting. When she’s not at work or having dinner with her grandfather she likes to go out and explore. The city drips with history, from the unassuming spot that marks the Boston massacre to the Freedom trail. The main square teems with old bricks and building that date back to our forefathers and then there is the spark of new businesses, the boutique that carries all Christmas decorations all year long, the clothing store, the seafood restaurant with open air seating and fried oysters to die for. Yes, Boston is beautiful, the sunset over the water near the university. The view from the JFK presidential library over the sailboat that Jack used to love. The love story of America with Camelot outlined in a few rooms of artifacts and dreams. Andrea was a romantic, a nostalgic at heart. She found the way the water shimmered in the sunrise a miracle and loved running in the city. Her grandfather took a certain affinity toward her, though he certainly loved his two grandkids and knew their strengths and weaknesses like the back of his hand, Andrea was a novelty to him, and she was also the daughter of his only daughter. He insisted on dinners once a week, and a few weekends they would go out to his vacation home in the Berkshires.  
The young brunette loved the houses here, they were beautiful mansions that seemed like small homes with the forest as a backdrop. The Berkshires were full of small town culture, symphonies, and theater groups made it out often to the delight of its upper-class citizens. It was also full of history from slave freedom to Susan B. Anthony’s birth home. Waking up to the chirping of the birds and not the traffic of the city made Andrea smile, it reminded her of Ohio. She wanted to ask her grandfather the true reason why her mother had been rebellious but she didn’t want to push.  
After Boston, they had made a few trips to Philadelphia and New York for the distribution centers. In New York she had stayed in the hotel unless it was necessary for her two go out and to her relief the trip had only lasted three days. She felt a strange uneasiness knowing she was so close to Miranda and that she was so far. The saddest part was that Miranda had made it abundantly clear that she did not want to be with Andrea. That was what Andrea got out of their last conversation, but what is she had been wrong? What if it’s not because Patrice still meant something to her, what if it was because she was afraid Andrea would reproach her one day? She shook her head, “she was not going to beg Miranda, she already had done so. Her grandfather would agree that an Ellis does not beg.”  
“You seem so deep in thought?” a thin low voice draws her out of her thoughts.  
Andrea turns as she sits straps her safety belt on, she was flying to Boston alone, her grandfather would meet her in a week.  
“Vianey,” the voice extends out her thin pale hand and smiles, “the pilot.”  
“oh,” Andrea shows surprise, she had never met Vianey.  
“Erick sent me instead of Johan, apparently he’s on time off?”  
She smiles and wonders if for a moment Erick was playing tricks on her.  
“You fly for the company?” Andrea asks.  
The blonde woman smiles pulling her hair up and putting on her pilot cap, “I don’t do it professionally, but I know how to fly very well. I’ve been doing it since I was 17.”  
The woman looks very young, “how old are you now?”  
“I will be 26 next week, won’t you come to my birthday?” she smiles again.  
Andrea likes her spontaneity, who was she?  
“Your party?”  
“Well it’s more of a dinner, maybe drinks?” winks.  
Andrea takes the glass of champagne from the flight attendant, “thank you.”  
“I think my cousin Therese will be there, so you will defiantly know someone.”  
“Oh, you’re her cousin!” Andrea suddenly comprehends, she was going to kill Erick when she saw him.  
“Yes, I am and you are every bit as gorgeous as Erick said you’d be,” she winks.  
Andrea blushes deeply, “I’m going to go fly the plane, we can continue this conversation when we land,” the blonde states and walks away from the Ellis heir.  
The conversation had indeed continued, Vianney insisted on taking Andrea out for drinks that night, and dinner the following day and the day after that.  
After New York, Andrea had spent most of the time in Boston getting on-boarded to the communications department, learning that running an empire was not as glamorous as one could think. The only fashionable activity was decorating her new office and that only lasted for about a month.  
“How would you like to take a flight with me?” Vianney had called one day. They had been going out to dinner for almost a month. Andrea liked hanging out with the bubbly blonde, she was fun and incredibly smart. She studied medicine at Yale but had never practiced.  
“I wanted to be a research scientist,” she had confessed once, “I don’t know why I wasn’t.”  
The way she expresses opinions are so matter of fact that you have no heart to question them.  
Her father owns half of Boston real state, she had no need to practice medicine. Andrea likes the way Vianney lives for the day, she is the complete embodiment of a society lady. In a way, she is opposite of Andrea, raised in wealth, never having to worry about what tomorrow will bring. She flies planes for fun, has a sailboat and her fathers’ credit cards.  
“What will you live off one day?” Andrea asks.  
“I work for my father, well I will inherit half the company one day,” she smiles.  
Andrea sips her drink, “I know it seems shallow, but I assure you I can run that company better than he can. I know what people say about me, but who cares you should live your life without the past mattering.”  
Andrea nods, they are lounging in a beach near Miami, “what do you want to do Andrea?”  
“Run my grandfather’s company I suppose,” she shrugs and they laugh it was totally strange how they had such different outlooks of life and their circumstances could be judged the same.  
Amidst the laughs Vianney leans in and kisses the bikini clad brunette. Andrea doesn’t stop her, she kisses her back but all the time she is completely aware that she is not Miranda.  
When the kiss is over Andrea smiles, “I believe I’ve given you a wrong impression of what this is.”  
Vianney looks at her still smiling, “what is it Andrea?”  
“I am not ready for a relationship, or anything …”  
There is a pause, clear blue eyes look at her, they are beautiful holding the secrets of the ocean.  
“Because you are still in love with the older woman?” her forehead creases as if it was insulting but the smile still holds.  
“Yes, “ Andrea gets up from the sand and extends a hand for the blonde to get up also.  
Vianney gets up, she is slightly shorter than Andrea, long blonde hair that reaches her back. She looks like a model that will grace the Runways Miranda watches. She is a peachy shade of pale and her blue eyes make you feel the Caribbean breeze.  
“Oh Andrea…” she inhales and holds the brunettes hand as they walk down the beach to their car.  
“Let’s grab a bite before heading back,” the socialite decides and Andrea nods.

 

Of all the ironies in the world a day later as she is flying out to Italy the Elias Clarke jet is landing. Perhaps fate was marked indeed. Andrea gets out of the car into the private plane, hair whipping as the engines whirled down, Vianney gets out behind her.  
“We’re still friends, right?” she asks, Andrea nods.  
From a distance Miranda steps down from the jet, looking as flawless as ever. Long black Burberry coat and her famous sunglasses.  
She stops and squints, what are the chances that she would find Andrea here. Why did she have to find Andrea here? All the feelings in her jump out again, she feels the knot form at the base of her stomach and the fluttery feeling of anticipation.  
From where she’s standing she sees Andrea talking to a young blonde pilot, her cap is off and her hair has fallen down. The blonde then reaches up and for a brief second brushes Andreas lips with her own. Andrea can’t stop it because she doesn’t realize it’s coming, she can’t stop it although she has already seen the other jet and the passenger get down. Miranda turns sharply as a Mercedes drives up in the distance to meet her.  
Andrea pulls the young blond aside and runs softly to the older woman, “Miranda!”  
“Andrea,” she breathes as the Mercedes pulls up.  
“It’s not what it looks like,” she explains.  
“What are you talking about?”  
“That?” she turns to the place where her jet stands, Vianney is now talking to the flight attendant.  
“I don’t need an explanation Andrea, we haven’t talked in months.”  
“But I need to give one to you, I still feel the same way I felt all those months ago. Miranda why are we apart? I need to tell you that I kissed her today, and all I could think about was that it wasn’t you. I wanted you to kiss me, because I will always love you. Where is the sin in that?”  
Miranda doesn’t want to but she smiles and the tears that where holding fall, “Oh, I have a meeting right now and you’re ruining my makeup.”  
Andrea laughs, “Miranda,”  
The older woman places her hand under the brunette’s chin, “it’s okay my darling, makeup can be fixed.”  
“Miranda tell me you still love me,” it is a desperate plea.  
Miranda nods, “let’s talk about this later tonight? Hmmm?”  
There is hope in her eyes, her blue eyes that are completely unique to her. It is as if the ocean and the sky existed in her, light blue and sparks of cobalt mixed together in the creators palate.  
“I am flying out to Italy to meet my grandfather, but I’ll be back in a little over a week,” she says.  
Miranda leans in to kiss her cheek, “then we can talk about it in a week.”  
The words Miranda breathe are a whisper on her ear as Andrea interlaces their fingers.  
Andrea nods and dips her head to signify she has to leave, Miranda nods and smiles again making the car wait until Andrea’s plane takes off for her to get in the car. “Go!”


	20. Roma

“fretta! Emergenza!” the two transport beds rolled down the ambulance into Spedali civili de Brescia. The orange looking hospital encompassed the whole bock, it was one of the largest and best hospitals in the Lombardy region, the main building received emergencies on the left wing.  
They had only been a few minutes away from the hospital, “Li ho visti schiantarsi, non sapevo cosa fare.”  
The woman driving behind Andrea lived near Montichiari, she was on her way home.  
“I saw them crash,” she explains in Italian to the doctors receiving the family duo.  
“stanno bene? stanno bene?” she kept repeating, asking if they were doing fine.  
“Faremo del nostro meglio. sono in condizioni critiche,” the young doctor states. He looks tired, with hazel eyes slightly red, probably from lack of sleep and soft hands as he patted the older lady. She looks worried at his words, he is telling her they will try their best. That is something doctors say when the situation looks grim. She should know, her late husband was a doctor.  
“do you know who their family is?” he asks.  
She shakes her head.  
“I only called the ambulance,” she says and her dark brown eyes glaze over with tears. She remembers losing her husband and her daughter the same way, what a tragic coincidence.  
.  
Miranda can’t remember the quiet ever bothering her, this time it does. She waited the seven days in which Andrea had promised to call. She had waited a few more to give her time, the she had waited another week. It had been sixteen days since that virtuous coincidence had put them face to face. Sixteen days of silence. Today she had called her office, obtaining the number from Emily. Who knows where the redhead got it from, she didn’t care. They had answered and told her that Andrea was out of the country, out of the country indefinitely. She was tempted to call Patrice, but that would lead nowhere. This time silence bothered her, the silence of her studio, while she thumbed through the book. The silence of her cell phone that did not ring with Andrea’s name. The silence of her daughters in the house as if they knew something was off kilter. Andrea’s silence when she had been the one to run across the tarmac, bothered her. Had she changed her mind? Did she choose that insipid blonde? What if something happened to her? She straightens up, her heart beats miles a minute, and for a second she can’t imagine Andrea being hurt. How would she find out? She turns on her computer, scans a few pages of news. There is nothing relevant. She doesn’t even know what she’s searching for. What is she searching for?  
.  
Patrice bites her lips as she looks out of the airplane window. It’s rainy in Cleveland, rainy and cold. She hasn’t flown to Europe in many years, she never needed to, didn’t want to unearth the past. Richard looks over at her, “Nervous?”  
She shakes her head, “Confused.” Her answer is short and curt, yet Richard pushes because he always does.  
“Does Europe make you think of her?”  
“We’re going to see our daughter, nothing more.”  
He looks over at his wife, her hair is combed neatly to her shoulder. She’s got shades on even though there is no harsh light inside the plane, her hands are folded softly over her lap. There are fine lines showing in her hands now, he hadn’t really paid attention. He had gotten used to her, but he can see it now. The wrinkles on her hands, the slight spots on her skin, the blue veins popping out. It’s been a lifetime with her. He can only hope he’s made her happy.  
“Were you happy with me?” he asks.  
She turns sharply to him, questioning in her honey brown eyes, “Of course, I have been immensely happy with you. You gave me everything I’ve ever wanted, a home, a family, a sense of belonging somewhere. I’m sorry I have never been the best at showing it.”  
“Tell the truth Patrice, why did you leave your parent’s? Why did you marry me?” his question is honest and there is no trace of reproach. Perhaps that is what makes her answer it as the plane speeds through the airport and into the grey clouds.  
“When I was 16 my father had an affair with my tutor. The typical closet affair, I found out. I told my mother, she almost left him. I adored my father before that, he was my idol, the standard by which I measured everyone. It was then that I realized who he really was, that the trips to Italy where only to take his mistress, the one he was having at whatever given time. He stopped after I outed him with my mother, but our relationship was never the same,” she stops and looks for judgment.  
“I never understood why mom stayed.”  
“Love?” Richard argues, “sounds like your father changed.”  
“It was too late.”  
“Because you’re one to never forgive?”  
“After that I moved to Paris to study law and I got engaged.”  
“Why did you change?” The airplane hums, there is a bell and the pilot announced that soon they will be able to take their seatbelts off.  
“I saw myself in a loveless marriage. I saw myself being just like my mother and I could not phantom that. I knew you’d be different, I knew life with you would be real,” she smiles and stops.  
“I was right,” she nods.  
“And her?”  
“I never told you because it didn’t matter,” she explains feeling cornered.  
“Leila told me, when we …” tears threaten to fall, “when they called about Andy.”  
“I’m sorry,” she says.  
“It mattered now,” he stops and takes a cup of coffee that is handed by the flight attendant.  
“it was supposed to be just fun, Paris fun.”  
“But she wasn’t.”  
Patrice shakes her head, she too takes the coffee. It’s dark and bitter and she does not have the energy to ask for sugar.  
“Were there others?” he asks. He doesn’t know what he wants to find out. It is not based on judgement, perhaps it’s shock. He wants to know who his wife really is.  
She nods.  
He looks away and straight into the back of the chair in from of him. A small screen is dark and filled with buttons. “If you had found her…” he has no idea where this conversation is going.  
“It wasn’t meant to be Richard. We both had different paths, amazing paths that were meant to be lived apart. Let’s not guess the past,” she speaks softly and with meaning. All the emotions are visible in her words as if they were painted with a palate of wisdom.  
“Andrea and her… that’s a story meant since the start,” she whispers and Richard takes a sip of his own coffee. A million thoughts race through his head. He should call Miranda. He would call her as soon as they landed.  
.


	21. Come back to me ~

At the end of the day we all have demons, responsible for us not pursuing our dreams, our lovers our hopes. The dark insecurities that whisper words into our late -night awareness. The ones that tell us we shouldn’t, we don’t deserve it, we failed.  
Perhaps that is why Miranda finds herself in her office. She really should not be here, not after the devastating news given this morning. The conversation with Andrea’s father had been short and ended with Miranda splaying a simple thanks across the line. Not what Richard Sachs had probably expected from her daughter’s lover. She hadn’t known what to say or do, the angst had been so all encompassing that it had been difficult to breathe. She had never felt like this before, she had for a second contemplated calling her mother because good or bad women migrate to their mothers in the end. She decided against it and did the only thing she knew how to do, go to work. Now she sat in her black leather chair, resting her elbows on the thick pane of glass she called a desk. She looked around the office at all the memories one accumulates with time, the photographs along the back; designers, politicians, photographers, anyone who is anyone. There are the framed magazine covers, the china vases by the window, the expensive Italian decor by the door. She doesn’t see why it was so important at one point. She sees movement out of the corner of her eyes, that now have tears slowly streaming down. She doesn’t need to look up to know who it is, she doesn’t say a word. Perhaps it’s oddly comforting that someone is there.  
“Have you ever loved someone so much it physically hurt?” She asks.  
Her Art director shakes his head, “can’t say I’ve been so lucky.”  
“I hadn’t either, I thought I had but none was like Andrea. In a year she changed my life, she always knew how to make me smile, how to stop my tears, she just ... completed me, she stole my heart.”  
There is a gasp for air, “oh darling,” Nigel nears Miranda and dares to hug her. She doesn’t say a word, she lets the man hug her, in an awkward embrace as she sits still in her chair and he bends over.  
“How long were you standing there?”  
He hesitates, “a moment, not long... long enough.”  
She nods into his wet shoulder pad from her tears and pushes him away. There is a strand of papers on the table she had been focusing on.  
“What do I do now Nigel?”  
He can’t remember ever seeing Miranda cry, for a moment it is almost like seeing your superhero crumble. She was always the pillar of strength, there were times when he almost believed she was invincible and now here she was teary eyed and asking him something he had no answer for. It petrified him, to not have an answer to her question. He knew it was silly to think like that, the Miranda that stood in front of him was not the same woman than ran the magazine with an iron fist.  
“Miranda,I have no words,” he answers honestly handing her a handkerchief and calling out for the new Emily.  
“Get us a cup of tea, make it two,” he orders the leggy blonde. She stands dumbfounded for a moment, “Tea?”  
“Tea .. leaves, sugar, hot water…” he explains.  
“Not coffee?” she asks.  
“Tea Stephanie, tea,” Miranda sais quieter than usual and with a confused nod the young woman goes off to hunt down tea.  
“So you do know their names,” he smiles.  
“Of course, I do Nigel, my job is about details. I could not possibly miss that,” she answers a calm seeping into her voice.  
“Then?”  
“My job also consists of finding talent, and only talent stands out and makes a name for itself.”  
“Good to know, I’ve stood out,” he smiles.  
She’s distracted for a moment, until the tea arrives in an intricate tea set that Miranda didn’t even remember. It is poured, sweetened and after the first sip the tears come down again.  
“You should go see Patrice,” Nigel offers.  
Miranda shakes her head, “I can’t.”  
“It’s what Andrea would want,” he pushes.  
Miranda looks up from her cup of tea, two ocean blue eyes questioning Nigel, after a moment she shakes her head, “I wouldn’t have the strength.”

After work Miranda instructs Roy to drop her off a few blocks from the townhouse. She cites traffic but the truth is she wants to walk. She needs to walk, to feel the crisp New York air hit her face, flutter her hair, push the edges of her mind. She needs the calm of putting one foot in front of the other, equilibrium of heels on concrete. She needs to see the cars lined up in the quiet streets, the perfectly trimmed bushes outside expensive condominiums and shops of all different kinds. She needed to be reminded that everything was real, that life existed, that it had not ended with the morning’s phone call. She plans to drive out to her Hamptons house the following day, instead she finds herself on a private jet with Erick on her way to Rome. Erick was the last to fly to Rome following the accident, part because he had loose ends to tie in the business and part because he could not bear the loss. He calls Miranda because he figures no one had; yet, he’s surprised to find out Richard had the previous morning.  
“Are you flying out, Ms. Priestly?” he asks.  
She shakes her head although no one could see her and the expensive loops she has on her ears swing from side to side. She doesn’t know why the word came out after he asked, she had made up her mind to not go.  
“Yes,” she answers and is met with a compassionate approval.  
“good, why don’t you join me tomorrow?”  
“Out of Boston?” she asks. She’s read about the Ellis family.  
“I am actually in New York for business, I’m flying out of La Guardia, I’ll send my driver.”  
“That is very kind of you,” she says windily into the phone because the tears spilled out again. This would not do. She could not spend the whole day crying.  
“Was your grandfather as kind as you?” she asks.  
“He was the kindest soul, I ever met,” he says.  
“mmhh” is all the response he gets from the fashion editor.  
“I will see you tomorrow,” he repeats and waits for her positive reply before hanging up the phone.  
He too is hard to read. Much of his life relies on being expressionless and it seems he too has forgotten how to be compassionate. It was Vianney who had called him, she sounded altered and scared when he answered.  
“Erick… there has been an accident,” she said and her voice broke. She was crying. His first thought was that she was hurt, the he thought maybe the plane.  
“I am at the hospital, your grandfather and Andrea were driving,” she had stopped and he had stood with the phone pressed against his temple hearing her cry.  
“What hospital is it, is it in Rome?” he asks. After he hangs up, he realizes no one in dire need and tragedy sounds calm and rational. He realizes he’s lost humanity, he realizes he can’t cry.  
Erick understands Miranda’s icy calm the following day when she shows up, head wrapped in an Hermes scarf and a hot coffee in her hand.  
“Ms. Priestly,” he extends his hand.  
“Call me Miranda,” she offers.  
“I’m sorry …” she starts and he nods.  
Patrice paces down the hospital corridors as the nurses and doctors pace down with files and folders. She’s waiting for the death certificate to be completed, she’s been in this hospital for two days, her daughter and father for almost four. She’s been living off dark espresso bought at the cafeteria and pastries from a bakery somewhere near that Richard read about. She had bags under her eyes and has only gone to shower at the hotel once. She has to stay here until everything is done, she’s afraid that if she is leaves weariness will overcome her and she will not return.  
“Patrice,”  
“Miranda,” they salute each other with a distant tone, neither woman looking directly at the other. Miranda stands taller, regal in six-inch Prada patent leather pumps. She stands reading glasses on, black wide leg pants and a silk wrap around her shoulders. Patrice looks sad and tired, her years in suburbia are showing and she nods as she looks past Miranda to see her nephew Erick.  
“Aunt,” he salutes colder than Miranda had.  
“Erick, your brother is dealing with all the paperwork to transfer …” her voice breaks, “them to Rhode Island.”  
Erick takes a deep sigh, “Miranda are you okay out here?”  
She nods.”  
“I’m going to get some coffee,” Patrice announces, “would you like some Miranda?”  
The fashion editor nods as she leans against a blue wall, “that would be nice.”  
Her voice is velvet soft, a grave sadness resonates from it. As Patrice walks away, she finds herself wrapping her hands around her waist. She knows she should be here, Andrea deserves it but she feels so alone, so out of place, so reproachable. She feels the onset of tears and she can’t let the tears fall here, not in front of Patrice. To her fortune Erick comes back after a few minutes have passed, “Miranda this is doctor Cesario.” The young man in a white robe smiles and nods, “the great Miranda Priestly not the best circumstance by any measure but it’s a pleasure to meet you. My daughter is a huge fan.”  
Miranda smiles, normally she would be annoyed that someone would bring something like that up in a situation like this. She would bark something harsh back at the perpetrator for lack of decorum. The man had a kind, handsome face high cheekbones and a full beard around them.  
This man had received Andrea as she was bleeding out, he had fought his hardest when her heart had stopped beating. This situation was different, Miranda owed this man so much more than he could imagine. “That is very kind of you,” she answers and extends out her hand.  
“If we have any coordinating time, it would be a pleasure to meet her,” she answers and she knows Andrea would be proud of her. Maybe she would tell her, how she had been nice to the man who saved her.  
“She would love that,” the doctor smiles, “would you like to see her?”  
Miranda hesitates.  
“I understand Miss Ellis is you girlfriend?”  
Miranda nods, “yes, she is. “ Her words are distant and soft, if they were material they would evaporate as fast as rain clouds after a storm.  
“Follow me, she’s not awake yet but she’ stable now,” he says as he leads her to a room down the hall.  
He doesn’t’ go in with her, perhaps he knows that these things are bettered handled alone. Only as soon as Miranda sees the young brunette she doesn’t know if she can handle all this alone. Andrea looks so small, so young, so breakable. Her hair is messily sprawled around the pillow, her eyes are closed, she looks ghastly white. There are needles and tubes coming out from her arms and hands and oxygen keeping her alive. The tears that had almost been shed in the hall, were now warm against her cheek.  
“Oh, And-rea,” she whispers like she always says her name. She’s standing at the foot of the bed, too afraid to move, to breathe.  
“And-rea,” she repeats and it is said like a caress softly spreading over her young lover, it is so soft it can only mean love, "come back to me."


	22. Rhode Island Millionaires

“Coffee?” Miranda is met with a paper cup thrust in her face. Her eyes meet Patrice’s and the tension could be cut with a silver knife. Patrice looks at Miranda with confusion whirling in her hazel eyes, the tint of honey is barely visible. One could describe it as an in-between anger and worry. She wanted Miranda to stay for the sake of Andrea but she wanted her to leave for own sake.  
“Miranda?” the interruption is most welcomed by the editor although as she turns she is not sure which evil to face. The voice belongs to a young blonde that she recognizes as the pilot that was on the tarmac with Andrea.  
“Vianney,” she extends her hand.  
“Miranda Priestly,” she does the same though she knows it’s redundant.  
“I was hoping you’d give me a moment,” she pauses signaling for them to walk.  
“Of course,” she says in her best Runway voice and follows the young woman out of the waiting room into the hospital hall and out into the street.  
“I wanted you to meet the lady who called the ambulance, she insisted on meeting you if you did come out. “  
An older lady walks up to them and nods, ‘Signora Priestly?”  
Miranda nods dusting off her basic Italian, “Si.”  
She hands the editor a locket, the chain is broken as if it was ripped of the wearers neck. She recognizes it, it’s is something she had bought for Andrea last year. It was an old-fashioned photograph locket. Miranda had not put one in but now as she opened it she saw a picture of herself, holding the girls and laughing. She remembered that photograph Andrea had taken it, she just never saw it printed.  
“La ragazza … she …. Had it. She asked for you,” the older woman says letting go of Miranda’s hands.  
“thank you,” she answers. “le devo la sua vita.”  
The woman smiles at Miranda’s efforts to speak Italian, “Prego.”  
Both women stare at each other for a second, Vianney shuffles her feet.  
“Lei ti ama,” she smiles, “I’m glad she’s stable.”  
Miranda has no words ready to answer, the emotions conflict inside her. She knows if she talks her voice is going to break, she knows she’s going to cry.  
“anch'io la amo, I love her too,” she says and takes out a piece of paper scribbling her phone.  
“If you ever need anything, I owe you so much,” Miranda smiles and hands the paper to the old lady.  
“Grazie,” the lady says again and walks over to her car waving melancholically.  
“Thank you Vianney, that was unexpected,” she whispers looking at the locket in her hands.  
“I’m leaving later today, so I figured I should do it now, take care Miranda,” the young woman says and shakes her hand again.  
“You too.”  
Whatever she was going to say, is lost as the young blonde walks away from the hospital curb. She knows she has to return home soon too, Erick, his father and brother are returning home the day after tomorrow with Mr. Elliss’ body. The Italian media has reported about it, the funeral back home will be soft and intimate. She has to go home to her daughters, she’s been gone for three days. She has to go home but not yet.  
Three days turn to two weeks, Andrea makes slow progress but she doesn’t wake up from the induced coma.  
“The doctors said her brain had swelled,” Richards explains as they sit for lunch at the cafeteria.  
“She’s strong Richard, she’s going to wake up… she has to,” the words are meant to reassure the man in front of her, but they don’t sound too secure.  
“Have you talked to Patrice?” he asks.  
She shakes her head, “I rather not, there is nothing to talk about.”  
“I am not sure I follow,” he asks taking a bite of the pizza that sat on his paper plate.  
“I am flying home tomorrow,” she stops, there is surprise in his eyes.  
“I have to go home to my daughters. Andrea is stable now and when she wakes up she will have you and Patrice and her sister. I …”  
“I don’t want to ask, I know you and my wife have a story,” he is interrupted by Miranda getting up abruptly.  
“that was a long time ago Richard, an unfortunate coincidence which I wish had never happened. I wish I had never met Patrice so that there was nothing in between Andrea and I, but the truth is I can’t erase who her mother is. I am going home not because I don’t love her, I love her more than I knew it was possible to love, I am going home because I want her to be free to choose whoever she wants to live her life with.”  
She takes the cup of water that had been accompanying her skimpy salad and walks out failing to see Patrice had been walking in behind her. Her gaze meets her husband’s and raises her eyebrows, opting to turn back to buy a coke and walk back to the waiting room. This was all a mess, how did something that happened so long ago come back to haunt her? How was that possible? She too would give anything to change the past, only she would stay with Miranda. She was aware of what this meant, that in theory she still cared for the editor, she always had. She could not, she was married and her older daughter loved the same woman. Andrea deserved all the happiness in the world. She knows she should go after Miranda, explain that it all doesn’t matter, that they can shake hands and bury it all. She knows that is the right thing to do. She knows it, she just can’t do it. She can’t do it, because there is anger in every though she has of Miranda. She’s unjustly angry that she has stopped loving her, that she is deeply in love with her daughter. That she would willingly sacrifice her happiness to see Andrea happy, the Dragon Lady was willing to retreat in order to see her lover happy. It angers her, and so she lets Miranda walk away. She lets her get in a black limo cab to collect her belonging at a nearby hotel. She lets her get on a plane and fly to the New York.  
Miranda comes home to the soft thud of Patricia’s large body and the long embrace of her two daughters.  
“Is Andrea going to be okay?” Caroline asks.  
“Yes, she has to.”  
Cara pours the tired editor a glass of scotch and sits down that evening after the girls are gone to sleep.  
“Tell me,” she starts, “what are you going to do?”  
They had never talked about it but Cara had been there every time Miranda’s relationships failed. They had a certain type of friendship that can only be described as special. Cara was more than a maid, she was a shoulder to cry on, a celebration companion, a pseudo mother to the girls, and someone who always set her straight.  
“I am going to wait for Andrea to decide,” she says.  
“Decide what? Decision isn’t enough for you when she came to beg you in the middle of the night? Or when she ran across a tarmac to say she still loves you?”

“But things are different now,” Miranda stops.  
“Because she’s lying in a hospital bed?”  
Miranda nods and stays quiet, she knows deep inside there is a point in Cara’s words.  
“What if she doesn’t make it?” Cara asks. Cara always asks the difficult questions.  
“Why would you say that?” Miranda asks outraged.  
“Because it can happen,” Cara says matter of fact not even flinching at Miranda’s cold words.  
“It’s not going to, she’s going to be fine. She’s going to wake up any day now and ask for something outrageous like Chinese food… she has to,” Miranda says now more to herself than to Cara.  
“You should do more, Miranda … Andrea would,” the lady with black hair and blue dress walks away taking the empty glass of scotch with her.  
It strikes Miranda somehow, “Richard? I need a favor,” she starts as soon as Andrea’s father picks up the phone. 

Robert Ellis always delighted in the not apparent jokes that life often played on us. He was like that his whole life, and in leaving everything to Andrea it seemed he wanted to be remembered like that. When the will was read after funeral, after the Forbes article and the US. Business interviews the family did not have words to describe their feelings. Oh, no one was left in poverty! Far be it for an Ellis to live in misery, there was trust funds to take care of every member of the family with the exception of Patrice. Erick was left one of the acquired companies, and there were strict provisions for both him and his brother to keep working in the company. His two sons got stocks, and houses as well as board seats. Patrice was left the main estate in Rhode Island, worth a hefty sum. No common soul would object to the fortunes that had been doled out like candy to kids at a party, but they would. They didn’t say it outright but they thought it.  
“Why the hell Andrea? She had known Robert for less than a year!”  
She inherited the company, its affiliate businesses, the house in Paris and the apartment in Boston as well as foreign accounts, and stocks. She would have money to last a lifetime, her children’s lifetimes. The only question now was, “what if she doesn’t wake up?”  
The elephant in the room, the lawyer knew it.  
“In case of Miss Sachs-Ellis’ death or inability to accept the inheritance everything will go to my eldest son Erick Ellis,” there is a sigh in the room. The relief is palpable washing across everyone in the room.  
“With the provision that she has indeed passed away or has been declared medically unable to manage the estate. In case of the latter, the transfer of ownership must be signed off by Miranda Priestly no more than a year after she has been deceased or declared medically unable or unfit." Andrea would have laughed at the reaction in the room. The same sigh that had been relief was now an inhale of confusion. The wives in the room had no idea why the editor of the fashion magazine they occasionally read, the woman they saw at designer shows and social pages had to sign for something in their family.  
Erick and Blake look at each other and laugh, it’s a hearty laugh, they get the joke. Their father looks pointedly at them, “the woman who was in Italy?”  
They nod, there is a genuine smile on their faces, they are disappointed that their grandfather had left them only a mere post and a trust fund, but they are not mad. This was not their money, it was not them who had built an empire and thus they did not care.  
“We should contact her,” Blake adds.  
“Who is this Ms. Priestly?” the lawyer asks and is met with a whole room of people talking all at once.


	23. Three Months Later

Miranda blazed down the walkway from the moment she stepped out of the SUV convoy. She didn’t normally travel with bodyguards but this move was calculated. She stepped out in dark leather boots and a knee length Vivienne Westwood wool dress that donned a cape wrapped around. On each side of her was one of the twins, dressed in black and neatly wrapped red hair. For a moment, they looked like a coven from a twilight series, ready for war. She knew this was a battle however; inviting the family was, they had just been stolen a fortune from under them to an outsider niece and left at the care of a fashion editor no less. To sign or not to sign would be a battle waged with the Elliss family and with herself.

Miranda had the exact effect she wanted, the convoy and the twins matched the reputation that superseded her.  
Daniella, Erick’s wife could only think of one thing as she saw the famous icon swing her legs perfectly from the Lincoln.  
She thought back to an article that was in Runway a few years ago.

“My biggest success has been my daughters, not my career or my marriages, but my daughters. They make me strive for beauty every day,” Miranda had written in that interview. 

“My biggest failure is not always asking for advice and being too obsessed with perfection. I know I often do it and haven’t been able to change it yet,” she had written in lieu of her real thoughts. How comical that the article on Daniella’s mind was the same one that was handed to her the day she met Andrea.

No one here knew the person behind the icon save for Erick and Blake, they saw the older editor walk down the short distance and it didn’t seem to be the same person that softly asked about Andrea at the hospital in Italy. They knew that perhaps this was a show, a show of strength, they understood that all their parents wanted amidst the cruelest of realities was to get back the company they always though they would inherit. Miranda could not care less about the company, but she didn’t know what the right decision for Andrea would be. Would the brunette want her to keep it for sentimental reasons, for her grandfather, for revenge? Would the young ex-journalist want her to return them to the family putting behind this episode of her life. She wished Andrea would wake up, she would give all her money up just so Andrea would wake up.

“Miranda, thank you for coming,” Daniella spoke before her husband.  
“I can’t say I was surprised at the invitation, I expect that you’d want to meet the person responsible for your company albeit momentarily,” she said and in the simplest of ways let them know she wasn’t going to be charmed away.  
She had requested at copy of the will as soon as she was notified. She could not understand how a man who didn’t know her, with the exception of one evening decades ago would trust his fortune. Perhaps it didn’t’ matter, he was dead anyway. Perhaps this was his way of getting back at his family’s greed. Perhaps he had made some promise somewhere along his life. She knew it had been a safe-way clause, he probably never imagined it would be used right after his death.  
“We have no doubt Andrea will be fine in no time and getting to know you is a formality,” Erick offers, “won’t you come inside?”  
All three Priestly women nods, “these are my daughters Caroline and Cassidy.”  
Erick and Daniella nod, “Blake and EJ will be joining us soon.”  
“EJ?” Miranda asks confused.  
“Erick our son, it’s a family nickname to not get confused, Erick Junior.”  
She cracks a barely visible smile, “in that case, I look forward to seeing them again.”  
The small talk over tea and dill sandwiches is amicable. They talk a little about Italy, about Robert’s legacy, they talk about Paris and having two kids and the Runway article.  
When the young men arrive, the twins are shown the gardens by the maids and Miranda joins the family in the studio.  
“We wanted to know what your plans are,” they drop down and even though she knew this question was coming she pauses and looks at all four members of the Ellis family.  
Erick senior is tall and mostly bald now. He too has honey colored eyes like his sister and he is thin and fit, the navy suit he wears is unbuttoned and he has a shirt with no tie. His wife is wearing black cotton slacks, and a matching shirt tucked in. She gives off the semblance of having been the popular cheerleader of the school though now she’s not as thin, not as blonde and not as young. Her expertly manicured hands comb nervously through her bottle blonde hair and her dark eyes graze Miranda up and down. EJ stands to the corner looking uncomfortable at his mother’s words, he is wearing khaki pants and a silky polo shirt with a black crocodile style belt. He looks at his younger brother Blake who holds a few papers in his hands and straightens the dark windbreaker jacket that matches his dark jeans and makes him look out of place from the rest of the people in the room.  
“My plans Erick is to fly out to Italy as soon as Andrea wakes up,” she smiles but it’s not reassuring. There is a degree of warning in her smile, bearing her teeth and staring him down.  
“Of course! We have no doubt about that,” he’s sitting down now cross legged in the dark office chair that belongs to the mahogany desk in the left corner of the massive room.  
“We meant while that happens,” he says.  
“I guess work at Runway and stay in New York like I always do,” she’s baiting them. She knows where they want to get to, she has no intention of letting them know.”  
She herself doesn’t know.  
“Are you going to wait the year to see if she wakes up?” Daniella throws out without tack.  
“Mom!” Erick growls and Miranda gets off from the love seat she had been reclined on, she sets the glass of wine down on a nearby surface and navigates toward the large glass that looks out toward the garden where her daughters are walking about.  
“You have a beautiful house, and a beautiful family Daniella,” she stops. She waits for the polite answers that has to come.  
“thank You,” Daniella grits.  
“I haven’t thought about what I’m going to do, because I’ve been thinking about Andrea waking up. I’ve been thinking about my two beautiful daughters and what I would want them to do, I’ve been thinking about what Andrea would do. I’ve had no time to think about money. I’m sure the loss of your father has a much more profound effect too,” she pauses for emphasis.  
She turns to look at them, sips the final drops of wine. She has them hanging on her words.  
“I would not want to mar his memory talking about money, I know the mourning must be wearing on all of you. I can only imagine. I am eternally grateful that you took the time to make sure I was not overwhelmed or in need of advice. I however don’t want to impose on you, I’ll collect my daughter and head to the hotel. “  
“Oh, no that’s not an impo…” Erick is about to start.  
“My condolences,” she says hand on the doorknob.  
“I’ll have my lawyer call you to set up a meeting on how things will be managed while Andrea wake up, thank you again.”  
She exits the room and collects her daughters. The two bodyguards escort her to the car.  
“Did it go according to plan?” Caroline asks.  
“What plan?” She smiles.  
“Mom!” Caroline insists as they drive to the hotel.  
“And that’s how it’s done. Now I wait for their call,” she purses her lips and the twins giggle wholeheartedly. If only Andrea would wake up now.

Andrea could hear Miranda, through the shadows of her voices and obscure dreams she could swear she heard her. She could hear her name being called, first it was her grandfather in panic, then a woman’s voice in urgency, and then of all the voices that mingled and muffled she hears four words,” And-rea, come back to me.”  
She instantly knows that Miranda is there, she wants to wake up. She wants to go back to her. That is all she’s wanted since that awful night at her parent’s house. She hears Miranda often for a moment. She loses time, she doesn’t know how long she’s been lying there, inanimate, mute, and useless. She wants to tell them she’s okay, that she can hear them.  
They ask her if she can hear them, she nods. She’s sure she does but then she hears them say, “there is no response.”  
They ask her to squeeze their finger, and she does. She is sure she does but they don’t take the respirator out and that means she didn’t move. She wants to scream at them that she is fine. That she can hear them. She wants to but she can’t. She can’t move, or talk or ask for her grandfather. She knows her mother is there, although she doesn’t talk to her. She doesn’t want her mother there, but she’s glad her father talks to her. Then after a short while she doesn’t hear Miranda anymore. Was she imagining it? Did Miranda know? Was she dead?  
“Where is grandpa?” she says and she knows there will be no answers. There never is. She only asks the question in her head, her lips don’t move and her words don’t come. Tears want to fall down her eyes, only she’s not sure if they really do.  
“What? What did you say? Doctor!”

She’s startled, this had never happened before. Two large eyes stare at her.  
“She’s awake! Can you blink?”  
Andre tries, she doesn’t know if she’s successful but them the lady in front of her laughs, when she fully opens her eyes, she realizes the lady is her sister.  
“Que bella!” the doctor exclaims and goes off into a rant in a language she does not recognize.  
Italian, something in her tell her it’s Italian, she’s in Italy and she was in an accident.  
“We can remove the respirator,” the man says in an accent to her sister who nods crying and cupping her hands over her mouth.  
She takes out a phone, “Dad! She’s awake!”  
There is crying and laughing and after the respirator is taken out her mouth hurts, her trachea hurts, her chest hurts and she feels heavy.  
“Where is grandpa?” she slurs out and the doctor looks away over to her sister.  
“Andrea you’ve been here for three months,” her sister clarifies but that is not the question she asked.  
“Where is she?” she asks again and it’s hard to speak. Her mouth hurts and her word jumble and she can’t lift her arms.  
“You have to rest,” the doctor says calmly to her.  
Rest? She’s been resting for … three months? The accident, she knew it. In her subconscious she knew it but it all comes rushing back now. The semi, the car, the lady on the road. She remembers darkness and cold and her grandfather saying, “Andrea, watch …”  
“Where is she?’ she asks again.  
“Who?” her sister answers.  
Andrea tries to sit up, her arms wobble and pain shoots all up her spine. She cries out.  
“Andrea be still,” her sister exclaims trying to catch her from an imaginary fall.  
“Miss Sachs, resta,” he tries again in a weird mix of English and Italian. She’s never even heard that word before.  
“Miranda, where is Miranda?” she asks using all her energy.  
“Not here,” her mother comes in and shuts down the words that were on the tip of her sister’s mouth.  
Andrea feels tired, so tired and she doesn’t want to see her mom. She’ll try again tomorrow.


	24. Friendships

1 month after the accident ~

Miranda sat with her hand on her temples, her lips pursed and her eyes hold a hawk like stare at whatever documents she was reading. Her glasses hung on the bridge of her nose, “Leonard I don’t understand.”  
“They are contesting the will,” he repeats for the 3rd time of the conversation. His deep lower London accent is evident unlike Miranda’s. They have known each other for as long as they have been in New York, decades ago.  
“I get that part,” she says dryly, “but can they? Are they going against the fact that I’m in charge momentarily? “  
“They claim that you have no rights,” he offers.  
He’s cut off by Miranda, “which is true.”  
“Please don’t say that to their lawyer,” he adds sarcastically.  
"I would not dare”  
“If I may ask, what is your relationship to her?”  
“She is ...” there is a pause, “ was or it’s complicated. She is my girlfriend.”  
“Okay, but there are no legal bounds, right? Not a domestic partner agreement?”  
“No,” she says as it was a regret.  
“Well, it really should not matter. You haven’t inherited the estate, you are simply a watch guard so to speak.”  
“What do we do then?”  
“We wait, we have sent our handling requests to the Law team. We are not imposing any difference in the way they conduct business with the exception of weekly reports and notices of board meetings. We are requesting the full year be honored.”  
“Mmhh hmm,” she sighs taking off her glasses.  
“Thank you,”  
“Anytime Miranda,” he answers softly and adds, “if you need anything, let me know.”  
She knows he means anything, even if it’s a coffee at 3 am. They have always been like that.  
“That means the world to me, Leonard. Good friends in times of need, keep me updated.”  
They hang up. She sighs again, she stares at the will in front of her. It is all so overwhelming, not only does she have a whole magazine to run with staff that decides to not do their jobs but now this.  
She shakes her head and gets up from the desk. She strolls to the living room and pours a glass of Whiskey.  
“I think you need a better drink than that,” Cara interrupts as she’s sipping the whiskey in her hand.  
“I don’t even know why I’m drinking in the middle of the day,” she says to Cara in theory but mostly to herself. Cara, brings out the ice cubes and the ornate metal shaker. Miranda stares at her maid, the soft wrist movement as she makes a drink and talks at the same time.  
“No one is judging you here Miranda, you’re not your family.”  
She takes the poured Martini in the perfectly chilled glass.  
“You can’t control everything,”  
“What if she never wakes up?” Miranda asks.  
“She will, she’s young.”  
“And if she doesn’t?”  
“Well then you know you did the best you could, and you’ll honor her legacy by being happy. Just like she wanted,” Cara States and the martini is drank too fast.  
“I could have stopped her from that trip. If I hadn’t pushed away she would not have to gone to her grandfather,” she whispers.  
“Don’t place guilt Miranda, that saves no one.”  
Miranda nods and shrugs, “I think I’m going to rest now.”  
For someone who never drinks, a whiskey neat and a vodka martini within a short span certainly had an effect. She wasn’t inebriated but she could feel the faint tingle of warmth down her arms and up her cheeks. She could see the haze that was slowly coming over and as soon as she laid down to rest the room spun slightly.

She wants to fly to Italy again, she wants to but can’t bring herself to do it. She’s the worst person in the world, maybe Andrea was right the first time in Paris. No one wanted to be like her. How could she proclaim that she loved this young woman and not be able to fly out to see her? It was heartbreaking, and she wasn’t good with broken hearts. To see Andrea there, unable to smile, to make a silly joke, unable to be herself. She had asked Richard to put flowers every morning, she had asked for him to notify her instantly of any change.  
He had not asked anything else of her, he was a good man. Patrice was a good person too, she knew it deep inside. We should never judge a person by what we see, she was the best example of that. Anyone that knew her shallowly would agree that Miranda was a bitch, overpowering, vain and uncaring. She was, but if you took the time to break the walls she had constructed you would see that she had those walls to keep from being hurt. You would see that she had always been hurt, she had always felt unwanted, she had always felt she wasn’t worth much.  
That was what she should have put in that stupid interview, question number three.  
“What don’t people know about you?”  
She should have said that people didn’t see past the icon, past the legend. They didn’t see past the fancy designer clothes and the recognizable hair and the stories of divorce splashed across Page six. They didn’t see the woman who had to cover up her insecurities with Chanel no. 5 and had to cover the hurt of being criticized by her own mother with cashmere scarfs. 

She was sure Patrice was just like that. She had known a completely different woman back in Paris. Someone who was weighted by the responsibilities of her family, by the broken idolization of her father and her own torn secrets. She hopes Patrice had been a good wife to Richard, he seemed to love her more than anything. She wondered what he thought of all this entanglement. She wondered if he had confronted Patrice, if he has asked for the truth or if he was keeping silent for his daughter’s sake?  
She had not asked.

By the time she looks at the clock on her bedside table it’s 8 AM. She sits up in panic for a few brief seconds, her head hurts and she doesn’t know what day it is. It’s Saturday her phone tells her, Saturday and Andrea has been in comma for exactly 36 days. Cara announces that there is someone there to see her. She combs her hair, brushes her teeth and spends the better part of 15 minutes applying basic makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes.  
She goes down in her silk print robe, it’s black and has white flowers, white elegant flowers.  
“I heard,” Ryan says meeting her at the foot of the stairs. He’s got a two-cups of coffee from the kitchen and a large bouquet of yellow and white flowers.  
“I thought you could use a friend,” he smiles.  
She wonders why she could not have fallen in love with someone like him, someone simple and easy. She’s too old for this saga that unfolds.  
“Thank you,” she whispers and sits at the foot of the stairs with him. Taking the steaming cup of coffee from him she leans her head on his broad shoulders, “I’m so afraid that she won’t wake up.”  
He doesn’t say a single thing. That’s why she likes him. He never says something that isn’t true. He doesn’t lie.  
“I’m afraid that I’m doing everything so wrong,” she starts.  
“Miranda, you are the most important editor in print, you are a legend, you have taken Runway to a different level, you’ve created an empire!” he turns her head around to look at him.  
“You have raised to wonderful daughters alone, everything you’re doing is correct. It may seem like it isn’t, but it is.”  
She nods, funny that Miranda Priestly would need reassurance but she does. It strikes her at that moment all the support she has. That for someone who doesn’t see the value of friendship, who doesn’t’ take the time to cultivate deep friendships she’s gotten incredibly lucky. She’s got Cara and Ryan, she’s got Leonard and even Nigel. She smiles back at Ryan, something must have changed in her eyes because he smiles back and nods, “that’s my girl.”

By the end of month two Miranda has regained most of the composure that one would attribute to her. She’s stalking down Runway like she usually does, barking orders to everyone from Emily to the janitor. The cover gets re-shot and she cancels the Broadway story for one about women in the medicine field. Those that don’t know what she’s dealing with behind the scenes would never guess that there is something amiss. 

“You’re keeping up a good appearance,” Nigel tells her on day 53 and she can’t help but nod.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, work has always been my priority,” she offers with such conviction that anyone would believer her. Nigel takes a seat opposing her flat glass desk and moves the purple orchid aside.  
“No, it hasn’t,” he says and she slumps defeated for a moment.  
“I went to a courtroom meeting, I had to listen to Andrea’s own family make a case about why there is no point in waiting the year to see if she wakes up. Most comma patients don’t come back after seven weeks.” Her voice breaks as she says that.  
“It’s okay to be sad Miranda,” he offers and she lifts her head slightly to glare at him.  
She quiets, doesn’t say a word and stands up walking towards the door. Nigel thinks that it signals the end of the conversation he’s about to get up but she closes the door and spins around.  
“It’s all so fucking overwhelming! I don’t know what ... I have never been so unsure of everything!! “  
Her words are short of screaming and her hands are slightly shaking. Nigel is completely startled, he sits there half standing and breathes. Sure, he had seen her be upset, he had seen many assistants get fired, be told how wrong they are, he had seen her cry recently but never had he seen her completely admit that she was lost. He had never seen her out of control.  
How had it all happened?  
“I should be there with her, you know?” She’s not really asking him, she’s saying it.  
“I don’t really deserve her but I don’t deserve all this fucking mess either! I was fine before her and I thought I’d be fine without her now but I ... I can’t. Why is that Nigel? Why is it that it can be fine one second without someone and then you need them like air to breathe?”  
There is a long pause, she sighs and leans against the window sill that overlooks the great apple. The people busy with their day, crossing the street, running around. She wondered where they were going. Iconic taxi cabs drive left and right like play cars on a children’s highway toy.  
“Because you had never loved someone before, not truly, not with the conviction you love Six, and that my dear is what love feels like when it’s lost.”  
She turns giving him a half turn smile and a dismissive wave.  
“Do you remember when you asked me if I had ever loved so much it hurt?”  
She nods.  
“I had,”  
Her lips purse in a question, she’s about to ask who. He beats her to the punch.  
“When I was 17 I loved someone, we were soulmates,” he stops. There is a far off look in his face as if he had a hard time recalling details.  
“Then at 19 he overdosed. It was going through hell, it broke my heart and nothing was ever the same.”  
Miranda crossed her arms, her slim frame leans against the window still but her full attention is on the middle-aged man sitting across her desk.  
“It hurt just like you said, like gasping for air as you drown. It hurt for a long time, it still does and I can honestly say I’ve never loved anyone like that again… Perhaps that’s why I’m single now,” he laughs. Nigel always makes fun of the circumstances, he like Andrea use it as a defense mechanism.  
“Nigel, you never said,” she starts and then realizes they had never really talked about personal matters. Even though Nigel was the closest thing she had to a friend in the industry, she never had asked about his past, his present.  
“I’m sorry,” she says.  
He shrugs, “It was a long time Miranda and the future with him was non-existent. You on the other hand, you have a chance.”


	25. Brescia 2011

3 months after the accident, before Andrea wakes up.

“The last will was notarized in New York City, therefore we are abiding by the laws of the state,” Leonard states loud and broadly to a room full of lawyers and financiers dressed in black. They are once again sitting in the Ellis Corporate Boardroom. This is the second discussion in less than one month about the correct enforcement of the will.  
“My client would like to point out that there is no change being made to hierarchy of the company. The commitment is still to the shareholders and our partners. We are still requesting the full allotment of time is used before the estate is signed to Mr. Erick Ellis.”  
There is a slight murmur along the room. At the far end of the long oak table the lawyers for the Ellis family pass along a note. It’s been almost 90 days since the accident.  
“We are requesting that the sole decision power be given to Erick Ellis, and that the estate be relinquished within the span of the next 30 days. Ms. Priestly has no legal or blood connection to Ms. Andrea Sachs-Ellis and therefore no clear legal authority. If the estate is not in the hands of the Ellis family in the next 30 days we will be requesting the annulment of the will.”  
Everyone shuts their bound leather folders.  
Leonard nods, “we will get back to you.”  
“We’re going to have to fight this, aren’t we?” Miranda asks walking slower than normal down a long marble corridor that lead to the main elevator. The shorter bald man next to her nods, the solitary taps of her stilettoes echo. They make a clacking noise, like they always do.  
“Are you sure you want to fight this?” he asks.  
“Can we win it?” is her answers.  
He looks up at her, her dark rim sunglasses and her black silhouetted power suit.  
“We’re not fighting to win, Miranda.”  
She knows what he means, they are fighting to prolong the date they have until the fortune is lost.  
“I’m not sure what Andrea would want,” she confesses.  
“What do you want?” he asks.  
“To go home,” she answers.  
“Well go home, think about it. I’ll see what we can do meanwhile,” he says and she doesn’t bother to answer. The Mercedez pulls up to collect her and she gets in the car, the window rolled down to wave goodbye to her lawyer.  
“Miranda?” Leonard stops the car standing on her back passanger window.  
“Mhhh?” She hums questioning.  
The older man dusts his Armani suit and looks her square in the eyes, diamond blue shining back at opal.  
“Don’t worry about this, I’m sure whatever the outcome if she loves you as much as I see you love her, this girl will be glad to just be with you.”  
She can’t help but smile.  
“You know,” she tells him, “back when we were young. Having budget dinner on the lower east side, I never saw us here.”  
He smiles back, “neither did I.”  
“Fortune has been kind to us, I’m glad we’ve kept in touch.”  
He is not surprised by her kind words. The Miranda he knows has always been kind. She would split the cost of chinese with him while he paid off college books.  
The Miranda he knows would give him rides as soon as she got her first car, a 1983 Ford Escort. The Miranda he knows has attended his graduation, his wedding and his daughters birth each time with more expensive elaborate gifts, a sign of their changing fortunes.  
“Think about what I said,” he says waving as the engine revs up again.  
“Say hello to Louisa for me, “she says back and the car drives off.

 

When Richard calls it’s both joyful and confusing. There is a tinge of anger in her response as she realizes that it had been two days since the incident, two days since her Andrea had woken up briefly and fallen into comma again.  
“The doctors were optimistic,” he says.  
“What are they saying? Why is she in comma again?” she asks.  
“there is brain activity, they said it’s up to her to wake up,” he stops. He wants to add that they said she has to have something to look forward to but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know how Miranda will take it.  
“Does she know?”  
“About Robert?” he guesses.  
“Yes, did you tell her?”  
“It was her sister who spoke with her, but we didn’t tell her,” he stops.  
“Richard, you know the dictates of the will.”  
He nods and for the sake of the phone line whispers, “yes.”  
“I’m fighting for something I’m not sure Andrea would want.”  
Richard doesn’t even know who his daughter is anymore. He has no idea who his wife is, how can he give Miranda advice.  
“I’ll trust the decision to you,” he says, “I’m coming home next week. I can’t live here forever. I’m coming home with Patrice, Lil will stay and we’ll go from there. Erick and Blake have offered their support for her to stay.  
“If you need anything,” she says. She hadn’t really thought that monetarily they could not live there forever. The money was in a landlocked state for now.  
“That is very kind of you but we’re fine for now. “

When she hangs up the phone she realizes that she’s still in the same spot she was before, only now she has the sliver of hope that Andre will wake up again. She hopes Andrea will wake up for good. Nostalgia gets the better part of her and without validation or preplanning she asks for the corporate plane.  
She’s taking the girls because somehow, somewhere they’ve fallen in love with Andrea. They keep asking and she keeps stalling and now it’s time. The music must be faced at some point and today seems as good a day as ever.  
The flight seems to last a lifetime, the ten hours that cross the mighty Atlantic waters illuminated by sun and moon give her ample time to think, to regret this flight, to regret regretting it and then simply to fall asleep. Caro is asleep on her lap by the time the pilot announces that they will be landing in a less than half an hour. They will be landing in the Milan airport and driving the remainder of the way to Brescia.  
The twins haven’t been to Italy much, ever since they were 4 or 5 she tries to make them live as normal a life as possible. She has them shop at department stores, go to the park, she doesn’t take them with her to events or trips. She’s not sure if they will one day thank her or hate her for it but that was her decision as soon as they were born. The media did not always make it easy, living in New York keeping the photographers and reporters at bay was not always possible but she tried her best. She had thought about moving somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere where they would not be the center of attention.  
“Maybe Andrea will want to move with us,” she finds herself thinking. It’s all a guessing game, Andrea could decide she wants a whole new life after she wakes up, because she will wake up. Miranda tries to be optimistic. Now that she’s decided to fight for what Andrea and her have she hopes Andrea still feels the same way.  
The hospital is quiet and Andrea is alone, her sister is in the lobby reading a magazine.  
She recognizes the editor as soon as she enters the room with the two girls in tow.  
“Miranda?”  
Miranda nods. She has never met Andrea’s sister.  
“I’ll Leila Andrea’s sister,” she smiles, “you can call me Lil, everyone in the family does.”  
“Leila is a beautiful name, I think I’ll keep it. Thank you for thinking of me as family,” Miranda says as she bends in to hug the young woman.  
“Would you like to see Andrea?” Leila asks.  
Miranda nods.  
“We would love to,” the twins answer for their mother. “We brought her these,” they say showing of two identical stuffed bears one was grey and the other brown both with expensive bows tied to their necks.  
“They are beautiful, Andy will love them,” Leila smiles as she hands Miranda a visitor pass.  
“I’m going to go grab food, my parents have left for the day. I’m guessing you’re not in a rush to see them?” she asks Miranda.  
Miranda purses her lips.  
“Andy told me,” she explains.  
“Oh,” Miranda lets out, “will they be back tomorrow?”  
“I don’t think so, they are leaving in a few days. I think they have some last minute paperwork but they should be back the day after. How long are you staying?”  
Miranda shrugs, “I’m not sure.”  
“Okay, well I’ll be back in an hour or two.”  
The Priestly women nod their heads and head over to the room where Andrea is.  
The girls are quiet as the soft light illuminates Andrea and a few machines beep here and there. There is the heart monitor that beats rhythmically every few seconds. There is the ventilator pumping air in and out. The ivy drips and the monitor with the temperature.  
There are no more bruises on her face, her skin is soft peach again and her hair has been combed in a braid. There are various vases of flowers.  
“She looks like sleeping beauty,” Caroline offers and Miranda nods.  
“She does.”  
The three sit in silence for a few minutes, each twin playing with the cords, “Oh Andy, you have to get better soon. We miss you. Mom wants you to come home with us!” Cassidy tells the inanimate body lying on the hospital bed.  
Miranda glares at her daughter but does not contradict the girl’s words.  
After the while Miranda tells the girls to go get a soda if they like and wait for her in the cafeteria. They do as they are told, not because they want a soda but because they understand their mother wants to have the young woman to herself.  
“Oh Andrea, I miss you so,” she smiles.  
“You sure know how to make someone miss you, of all the people in the universe you had to be the one to make me break my promise of never falling in love.”  
She sits softly on the side of the bed, she holds the brunette’s hand for what seems like an eternity.  
“I wish you were awake with me, I wish you could hear me say how much I love you. That I want everything with you, from here until the end of time….” She pauses. She knows that stuff only happens in movies.  
“Wake up,” she says softly and after a long time she didn’t count how much she pulls a chair over and leans her head over the brunette’s hand.  
“Mom fell asleep with Andrea,” the twins tell Leila when she comes back with a few bags.  
“Oh, well… she hands the twins two recycled paper boxes with food in them. “I though you may be hungry,” she explains and the wins nod.  
“thank you.”  
“I’ll go check on you mom and be back,” she leaves her purse on the coach with them and she slowly peeks into the room.  
Miranda is indeed still leaning over the bed, her head resting sideways, her eyes closes.  
She knows that when the editor wakes up she’s going to have a major backache, but she looks so peaceful that she decides to let her be.  
“Okay young ladies, we are going to play a game to get to know each other okay?” Leila asks the twins who nod enthusiastically while their mother sleeps.  
Miranda exits hours later, stretching and slightly asleep still.  
She eyes her daughters with Leila asleep on the lobby coach. Three boxes of food lay to the side of them and by now there are two more people in the room.  
She shakes Leila softly, “I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to fall asleep in there.”  
“Don’t worry about it Miranda, we have all done it. I loved spending time with your girls. They are a handful,” she laughs.  
“They are indeed.”  
“How have you been?” Leila asks after a silent pause.  
“Good, as good as I can be. I should not have left, but I …”  
“You don’t have to explain to me, we both want the same thing for Andrea. We want her to wake up and be happy. You make her happy Miranda,” she stops to look at the editor.  
Miranda notices that Leila looks more like her mother than Andrea.  
“Have you decided what you want to do?”  
“She makes me happy too,” is her answer and Leila understands.  
“And mom?” the question isn’t meant to pry but it sounds like it does.  
“I can’t help what happened, it was an incident. Fate playing games with our lives, but I can’t let it decide two lives. When Andrea wakes up we will cross that bridge, now we just have to get there.”  
“I understand,” Leila nods, “Will you wait until after she leaves to come back?”  
“I’m not sure.”

Leila doesn’t ask more questions. Miranda takes the girls to the hotel to get some sleep. The return the following day to the same routine. On the third day Miranda asks Leila a favor.  
“Would you watch Caroline and Cassidy for a few hours?”  
“Of course,” Leila agrees.  
“I have one favor,” the blue- eyed woman asks.  
“Anything,”  
“I need to talk to Patrice,” she whispers as if it were a sin.  
“I can arrange to have dad out of the hotel before mom, here is where they are staying…”


	26. Mother Dearest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for waiting and your comments.  
> I am back and have a few chapters backlogged that I wrote on my airport stops.  
> So look forward to fast updates.
> 
> xoxo

The hotel is not what Miranda would have thought, it is an elegant yet simple building. It has green shrubs all around the perimeter and golden arches at the main entrance. There is a small restaurant to the left of the main lobby where a surprised Patrice had agreed to meet her at exactly 11:00 am. Miranda is early because she always is, her motto is to always be 15 minutes early to everything and her expectation is that everyone else should be early too. Patrice isn’t early, Patrice is never early, if she remembers correctly Patrice likes to be rushing to the deadlines, the meetings, the dinners.  
She orders an espresso and a fruit tart and waits for 7 minutes past 11:00 for Patrice to pull up the chair next to her and smile, “Miranda.”  
“Good morning Patrice, thank you for meeting me on short notice.”  
“I was surprised, Lil tells me you arrived two days ago?”  
Miranda nods, “I did. I brought my daughters.”  
She says it as an explanation, as an excuse but there is more to her statement. There is the implication that the girls accept Andrea, that they wanted to see her, that Andrea and all three of them are a family.  
Patrice smiles, “that is very sweet of them. I’m glad they like Andy so much. Do they like all your assistants?”  
Her statement is sarcastic, passive and not acceptable. The older Sachs is wrapped in a brocade shawl.  
Miranda is dressed simply too, she’s not here to do a power show. She’s here to have an important and finite conversation.  
“We both know that Andrea is no longer my assistant, and that she is much more than a Runway employee.”  
There is a pause, Miranda is seizing up her opponent.  
Patrice inhales air and sighs.  
“And yet here we are, without clear boundaries or descriptions. What do you want Miranda? You leave in the middle of the night promising an explanation, you refuse to accept her back without or with my consent and then you show up when she’s dying. You don’t say why or what you and her are or were, you leave again. And now because my father in his eternal state of trickery and defiance left you in charge of something you think you can come and ask something of us? What is it that you want exactly?”  
“I left Ohio because I wasn’t brave or clear enough to explain what had happened. It was so much, so unexpectedly. I had buried you somewhere in the back of my mind. You were a page in an old edition, somewhere in the archives.”  
She’s interrupted by the young waiter dropping of the coffee that Patrice had apparently ordered. The Sachs matriarch nods and “Grazie.”  
“And then I wasn’t an archived copy anymore?”  
Miranda gazes over at the honey colored eyes that could have dictated her life, “No you weren’t. “  
Patrice wonders if seeing her brought back the love that began in Paris. She wonders if Miranda like her felt that her whole life had been wrong in a sense.  
“You were suddenly real and all I wanted to do that whole day was to take Andrea’s hand and get out of there.”  
The expression on Patrice’s face flinches slightly, her eyes narrow and she sips the coffee.  
“And then?”  
“Then in New York I thought that it would be better if I retreated, you are her mother and the situation was too odd, too uncomfortable, too much perhaps for her. To be honest too much for me. I have always been a guarded person, more so after… you. And I didn’t want her to down the road reproach me, or realize that the knowledge of those brief days weighted on her.”  
Patrice nods. Miranda hasn’t touched her espresso but there are a few bites from her strawberry tart. “I wanted to give let her have a chance at deciphering it all.”  
“That meant splashing dates across every newspaper and magazine?  
Miranda shakes her head, “It is what it is. I thought it was better that way. I thought I could live without her.”  
There is a long pause, Patrice taps her hands on the wood tables covered in white cloth. She watches Miranda take a sip of the tiny cup in her hands and then she asks, “did you ever feel the same for me?”  
Miranda was prepared for a question like that, she knew it would come. She knew they would have to talk about the past before she could free for the future. She was prepared for it, yet it still caught her by surprise.  
She shakes her head, “I thought I did for a long time I thought you had been it and in a sense I did. I loved you. Yet, Andrea... she is the love of my life. There was something about her, she changed my life.”  
Patrice nods, there is hurt splashed across her face. She looks down at the black coffee in front of her and adds sugar.  
“I am going to date her Patrice.” The words are a statement, there is no room for interpretation, no reason for questions.  
“When she wakes up, if she wants to I am going to date her. I am going to ask her to come home with me, like we had planned. I am going to marry her at some point and I want to know she won’t lose her mother over it,” Miranda’s words are kind but finite.  
Patrice looks down at her beige slacks and her peals blouse and her hands with one chipped nail on the left. The tables always turn.  
Patrice smiles, she’s trying hard to hold the tears. She knows this is what it is. She told Richard on the flight there, she saw it. She saw the adoration in her daughter’s eyes as they arrived in Ohio. She recognized the panic in Miranda’s the panic of losing Andrea.  
“A daughter never loses their mother,” Patrice answers however softly.  
There is a truce, a moment of sorts. Miranda finishes the fruit tart and drinks her coffee.  
She folds her blazer sleeves up to fill up the silent void and looks down at her own deep purple dress underneath the black blazer. She loved that outfit, it gave her security.  
“Would you have come to Paris with me back then?” Patrice asks drawing her out of her thoughts.  
“I don’t know Patrice, I don’t want to speculate anymore. The truth is I have had an amazing life so far. I got every single career dream. The truth is I’ve had the opportunity to change and influence so many lives. I have two amazing daughters, I have a few great friends that have managed to stick with me through thick and thin. I have gotten so lucky. And then I got Andrea. I don’t know if it can be wrong or right. I don’t know if she will want this forever but I know I want forever with her. I love her Patrice like I’ve never loved anyone else. “  
The server asks if they need a refill, a young man with dark skin and grey eyes. He looks at Miranda for a second longer than necessary and then however shyly he asks, “excuse me, you’re Miranda Priestly, right?”  
There is a broken accent somewhere, it’s not Italian but it’s there.  
“Yes,” she replies, “that’s me.”  
“I am a huge fan, could you sign for me?”  
She takes his order pad and writes,  
“To Maurice,  
Follow your dreams whatever they may be,” she signs and hands it back to him.  
“Are you in town for a fashion show?”  
She shakes her head, “personal matter, I’m here to see...” she glances briefly at Patrice and continues, “I’m here to visit my girlfriend.”  
The man seems to take it at face value, “the journalist. I will pray for her recovery.”  
She wasn’t big on fans, she hated signing autographs, she didn’t do fan clubs or wave at the masses but this young man warmed her heart.  
“Thank you, that means the world to me.”  
He nods and disappears.  
“How does it feel to be Miranda Priestly?” Patrice asks.  
“You get used to it,” is Miranda’s answer.  
They have been sitting for an hour and the words conversed have gotten to nothing.  
“I know you don’t need it, you don’t need my validation or my approval. Andrea has always been an independent person. She never much needed me or maybe she did and I was a bad mother. She would contradict me for you in a moment.”  
“Patrice,” Miranda starts but now isn’t her turn to speak.  
“She would and that’s okay. I did too. I confronted my father and he agreed. I wasn’t as brave as Andrea I guess. I looked for you, you had left. Life was planned for us. What a great fucking irony.”  
“We weren’t more than a few days in Paris, we weren’t more than a maybe, a could have, a thought,” Miranda clarifies.  
Patrice nods, she knows.  
“Andrea and I, we are a palpable, a truth, we have shared our hearts, our secrets... everything.”  
Patrice knows what follows, she shushes the fashion editor with her hand.  
“I ... know you two don’t need it but you have it. My approval. I will always be Andrea’s mother; whether, she chooses a convent ... or you.”  
This was easier than she thought it would be.  
“If she wakes up...” Patrice states.  
“When,” Miranda corrects.  
There is a chuckle from the older woman, “when she wakes up. I am going to go live in Rhode Island.”  
“You and Richard?”  
“Are separating,” Patrice finishes.  
“I should have done this a long time ago.”  
Miranda nods, “thank you.”

They stand up and awkwardly part ways. Patrice watches her drive away, just like Miranda watched her drive away in Paris. Oh, mighty Europe how you play with hearts.


	27. second chances

Miranda visits every day after Patrice goes home to the rolling hills of Ohio and the quiet of her thoughts. Miranda sits with Andrea endless hours and the twins come too. They read to her, each a different type of book. Caroline has found an old bookstore near their hotel and is practicing her Italian. Cassidy reads flashy magazines half full of advertisements and the other half full of tips on how to get perfect beach waves. They watch TV with her and ask her quietly, when their mother is not watching to wake up.  
“Wake up Andy, let’s go home.”

Miranda returns home after three weeks.  
“The MET gala is soon,” she tells Leila, “I have to go, I will come back.”  
Leila understands. Life outside of Andrea’s room continues.  
“I understand, mom and dad will come next month. “  
On the way home, she realizes that Andrea has been in the hospital for almost half a year. She is losing time for the case like sand in an hour glass.  
“I’m ready to hand it over,” she says as soon as Leonard answers.  
“The estate?”  
“Yes,” she says and he doesn’t try to convince her. 

“Miranda! Miranda how is Andrea?” The reporters shout out as she climbs the stairs to the MET. The news hadn’t been insistent on the accident; however, given the chance to ask the famous editor about her controversial relationship, they do. She ignores then as she kindly smiles left and right and makes her way fast up the stairs.  
The Gala is as lavish and decadent as always. The theme is historical imagery. The gowns are divine, taffeta, brocade, pinstripes the colors and fabrics jump up telling the story, not only of fashion but of people themselves.  
All she wants is for Andrea to wake up. She’s at the end of whatever rope people talk about.  
She smiles to everyone she’s supposed to, she laughs at quirky little jokes that don’t need laughing. She’s going to shake every necessary hand, put her hand on the right arm and air kiss the important people. All the while wanting all of it to be over. She walks the beautiful halls of the famous museum, like she does every year. Amidst the paintings collected and the jewels hanging on the hands and necks of the world’s most famous people, she feels alone. The echo of those halls of immensurable wealth she hears the gasping on her own soul and the beating of her heart. She walks them in checkers stilettos, black and gold meant to represent the British code of arms in the 17th century, and a velvet gown in diamond black.   
She looks stunning but she feels empty and devoid. The twins have stopped asking about how Andrea is because it makes them sad, but she sees them say night prayers for her. She hears the familiar prayers their grandmother has taught them, the same she used to say as a child. The same prayers she hasn’t said in a long time. She wonders if maybe she should say them.  
Tomorrow she has a final appointment with the Ellis lawyer, he called as soon as he learned she was ready to sign over the state. She’s trying not to think about it.   
“Miranda, darling...” Sandra rushes to her secret hideout. A momentary oasis from the hub of people.  
“Sandy ...” she says. They have a good relationship, a pseudo friendship. Every big event Sandra Bullock meets her and they navigate it together.  
“I’ve been looking for you,” the brunette says.  
“I needed a moment,” she confesses.  
“I understand, it’s all so fake at times,” she says. She hates it too.  
Miranda smiles.  
“But it’s almost over,” Sandra singsongs, “won’t you join me for the jazz singer?”  
Miranda stands up and smooths the slight crease in her custom made Ferragamo.  
“How do I look?”  
“Gorgeous as always,” Sandra answers and puts her arm softly around the silver haired icon.  
The singer turns out to the highlight of an otherwise predictable night. She’s relatively new, a pale olive complexion with dark ebony eyes. Long black locks and a deep emerald dress. If Miranda didn’t know better she’d say it was a movie from 1955.  
“There are no regrets,” the voice soothes the rowdy crowd. Deep brass notes hit the low octaves. The lights dim.  
“It was always you for me.  
Always you and no one else  
Whether it makes it or fails to be

You are the love for me  
The one and only dream  
Darling no one else that I can see  
You and I, facing the world.

There are no regrets  
None that I can see  
It’s been a wonderful time  
Won’t you come along with me?”

The song meanders, the music slows. There is a long instrumental interlude. A few people sway to her song. Miranda can’t recall if she does, but the song is her song. This is exactly how she feels for Andrea. This song she decides will be theirs.

 

The man that she meets is not who she expected, this lawyer does not work for the Ellis corporation.  
“Armando Montenegro,” he hands her a card. Armando is tall and well poised, he has green eyes placed over sharp jaw lines and light chocolate skin. He is pristinely dressed in navy blue and a yellow tie. That’s why she recognizes him, one of the most important law firms in the eastern United states.   
“Robert was a close friend, I only agreed to handle his state because of that,” he motions for her to sit down. She does.  
“He called two months before his death and changed the will.”  
“If I may ask did he say why the change?” Miranda asks to confirm her own questions.  
“A granddaughter,” he smiles bearing his pearl white teeth.  
“Andrea,” she states.  
He nods.  
“He said all his family saw in him was money, money that his father had fought for and he had augmented. Andrea was a fresh start for him a second chance,” Miranda doesn’t say a thing she nods.   
“He wanted to teach her everything,” he finishes. She feels a certain sadness overcome her. As if on cue the New York skies turn grey.  
“Maybe he felt his death, just two weeks before Italy he came to add two clauses.”  
“Mine,” Miranda guesses.  
The older man with black rimmed glasses and glass cuff links nods.  
“Correct, he said he knew you’d want one sole thing...”  
He looks Miranda up and down, the pointed blue gaze, the spiked Prada heels.   
“Whatever was best for Andrea.”  
“How could he have known?” she asks more herself than anyone.  
“He said that you walking away after the news, making sure she was going to be okay with the continued relationship was a demonstration of love however hard it seemed for the two of you.”  
She shrugs, and Armando smiles.  
“Ms. Priestly?”  
“Miranda, you can call me Miranda.”  
“Very well, Miranda... I understand you are ready to hand over the company shares, the affiliate corporations, the stock portfolios, real estate properties and funds that were entrusted in your care?”  
She nods. A deep breath leaves her lips.  
“I am,” she whispers.  
“May I ask why?”  
She’s about to speak then she pauses, “It is time. I know Andrea will be happy when she wakes up to have us there, to be alive. I know the sadness of her grandfather’s death will weight on her with or without the money. I know Andrea, she’d give it up too.”  
He smiles, “seems like she means a lot to you?”  
The words are both a question and a statement, she doesn’t see the need to answer.  
He gets up from his green executive chairs and speaks as he walks to the window.  
“The second clause forbids you from doing that,” he pauses and waits for the questions from Miranda, “What do you mean?”  
“The second safeguards you in case the Ellis family contested the will,” he says.  
“Which he did,” she completes.  
“He wanted to make sure in the case that you ended up having to watch the estate for Andrea that you would not be pressured into handing it over. If the family starts a lawsuit then the first clause nulls and everything is divided into four.”  
“Four?” She asks confused.  
“Andrea, Leila, Erik Jr. and ... you,” the lawyer states.  
Miranda laughs, “this is like something out of a fucking Jane Austen book. Estates, fortunes and hidden clauses.”  
He laughs loudly, “he was a jokester. In the last few years he didn’t much get along with his two sons. His only interactions were with Erick and Blake, his younger grandchild lives in California for school.When Blake decided to marry, he was removed from the company board and left only a trust fund. Then Andrea came and it changed his view.”  
Miranda reaches to grab a chocolate from the crystal vase. She normally doesn’t eat chocolate but she doesn’t know what to do or say.  
“Does the family know?”  
He shakes his head and a sly smile appears.  
“No, I wanted you to be prepared.”  
“For Armageddon with the Ellis family?” she deadpans.  
He nods, “they will fight it. Perhaps not the kids but Erick and his wife will. “  
“And if Andrea doesn’t wake up?”  
He looks down and bites his lip.   
“In the case she is deceased her part will be absorbed by his two sons. This will make you and Leila equal with them.”  
She nods, “and if I refuse?”  
“You can’t... you may sell after but not now. I would hope you wouldn’t. Robert was counting on the love you say you have for his granddaughter.”

By the time she gets home she feels even more confused than before. It had taken so much for her to make the decision to hand over the inheritance that wasn’t even hers to realize she now had to accept part of it. She could barely remember Robert Ellis and she’s almost sure that he could barely remember her. To leave so much of his life’s work to her seemed inappropriate and surreal. She is sure this only happens in books, in hour long movies filmed with known stars that brighten up the screen. This did not happen to normal people. The week passes on as she waits to hear from the Ellis family. They don’t call and she wonders if that means the response will be worst. She calls her own lawyer and has him prep for the worst -case scenario.  
At the end of the week she’s met with two wide eyed twins sitting in her office.  
“Bobsies?”  
“We got off the phone with Leila,” there is a pause.   
“What is it?” She asks, worry seeping from her calm voice  
“She’s awake mom!” Caroline practically screams at her.  
She has to sit down to keep from hyperventilating. She was coming from the lawyer’s office again, she was practically his best friend now. Today she had signed papers to initiative the final transfer. It was only the beginning, she had decided to keep all contact through Armando and her own lawyer. She didn’t know how react, it was short of miracle.  
The doctors had said the longer comma patients remain in comma the lower the chance of survival. She’s first and foremost overjoyed. She proceeds with caution in case it’s not permanent, she calls the necessary people.  
“Miranda! Thank God!” Leila answers  
“Andrea woke up earlier today, she’s been fully conscious for hours now. The doctors say it’s going to take a few days in observation to make sure everything is good,” up to that point her voice is calm and matter of fact, “but Oh my gosh Miranda!! She’s awake! She tried to talk and ..” her voice breaks.  
“I’m on my way,” the editor says and a smile plays out on her thin features.  
Caroline and Cassidy run to hug her! “Mom she’s awake! Can we bring her home?”  
Miranda laughs, with notes or relief and worry. She can’t wait to see Andrea and hear her voice.  
She gets there before her parents do. For a few brief moments, it’s only Andrea and her in the solitude and quiet of beeping buttons and a constant drip.   
“Andrea... my beautiful darling,” She’s not crying anymore, she did that on the ride over. Right now, she’s calm and serene and she’s got flowers in her hand.   
“Mir... anda,” Andrea says brokenly.  
“Shhhhh,” Miranda hushes her because she wants the brunette to rest but mostly she’s not sure what she can tell her.  
“You came,” Andrea smiles as the older woman holds her hand.  
“Of course! I... I’ve been coming,” she whispers bending down to kiss the frail hand beneath hers.  
“I know, Lil told me,” tears suddenly roll down and she seems agitated, “and grandpa...”  
Miranda feels her heart crush, she knows her beautiful Andrea is hurting, her girlfriend feels guilty.  
“Having you close was a great joy to him,” Miranda says running her hands over the brunette’s messy hair.  
Long clear tears fall silently from Andrea’s large chocolate eyes.  
“If I had paid attention...” she stutters out.  
Miranda shakes her head and her eyes redden with the menace of tears.  
“Shhhhh,” she puts her finger slightly over Andrea’s lips. Lips that have kissed her passionately and now simply quiver.  
“It’s is not your fault, your grandfather loved you so much.”  
Andrea nods defeated, she wants to agree with her blue -eyed lover. She nods so that Miranda won’t talk about it anymore, but she feels immense grief for a man she knew for a few months. Maybe that was it, maybe it was the emptiness of all the lost years.  
“Andrea...” Miranda’s voice is still passive but now it conveys a stern statement, “I want you to understand I will be here for everything that comes after this. I will be with you no matter what... okay?” Her eyes seek brown orbs to look into. They find her, they find each other like two wanderers in the dessert.   
The bed ridden woman nods.  
“Okay,” comes the breathless whisper before Miranda reaches down and kisses her.  
“Ewww guys, we love you but we don’t want to see this ...” Cassidy jokes as she walks in both women sharing the kiss.  
Andrea manages a soft laugh and Miranda blushes even though she knows it is a joke.  
“So, when do we go home?” Caroline asks.  
“I can’t wait,” Andrea answers.  
There is nothing she wanted more than to go home, to lay down sideways on Miranda’s sheets and look into her eyes. It turns out the doctors weren’t having the same vision.  
“We need to run some tests, make sure all her organs are running correctly and there won’t be any surprises,” they tell the six women standing in a semi-circle next Richard.   
Patrice sighs and asks, “how long will that take, we would like to take her home as soon as possible.”  
“Hopefully no more than a few days.”  
Miranda nods, Caroline and Cassidy look at their mother exchanging identical glances.  
“Well what’s a few more days?” Vianney states. She had come back as soon as she heard that Andrea was awake. Even though she felt it was an intrusion on Miranda, she still was the one present when it all happened. She felt it was the most logical for her to see her for a day.   
Leila agrees and somehow it seems to tether an agreement or better said a resignation from the group.  
“I’ll tell her,” Richard volunteers and no one fights him.  
The editor decides to head to the hotel after dinner with Andrea, her sister and the girls. Caroline and Cassidy thought they would not admit it are tired and there is no sense in so many people being there. Leila is heading to rest too and only her parents will remain along with Vianney who was leaving tomorrow. She knew she must bring up the matter of the inheritance which will no doubt have a change of course. She should call Armando to see how the family reacted to both the news and Andrea being awake. She means to do it after the twins fall asleep but she’s so tired she ends up falling asleep on the red velvet couch of her daughters’ hotel suit.


	28. Vulnerability

The city is still dark when Miranda wakes up. She’s still in the same admiral blue dress, it has military style buttons on each sleeve and her nude pumps sit next to the couch. When she silently opens the door to her out room the curtains are drawn and she can see the soft grey rain sliding of the glass. She sits there mindlessly for moments on end, on the edge of her bed, in the limbo of time, staring at the dawn. The luminescence of the sun starts to break the obscure night, it starts at the base of the sky, where it seems to collude with the land. It isn’t a fast transformation long minutes take place for it to go from one streak to a few. The editor takes a deep breath, she realizes then how life takes time. It may not have been visible when she was young, it may have seemed like she achieved everything pretty fast. She didn’t. It took years for her to gain the experience and exposure to be hired by Runway. It took more years to climb the stairs from the ground floor to the executive office. It took long work days, days where she would get in at 9 and just like today see the dawn the following day. There were myriads of coffee involved, coffee runs which she had to do before she had assistants. It was a painfully slow process, that she didn’t notice. She was caught up in the business of the years, the lust for ambition.  
Everything was a slow- moving process, she now sees. She didn’t have two wonderful daughters overnight. There were months of pregnancy and years of watching over them. There were tantrums, and fevers and broken arms. She sees it all now, the nights when she’d come home exhausted to watch over their colds or stomach pains. The weekends spent making sure they did their homework, the shopping trips and the slammed door. That makes her smile. Caroline loved to slam door to show how mad she was. She also remembers the missed talent shows, the missed parent-teacher conferences, the times she entrusted their illnesses to maids and nannies, because fame started calling. Life was decisions upon decisions and not making one did not mean you were except. Not making a decision was making one on itself, one you usually regretted more. She remembers not making a decision about her first marriage, she let it go on. She let the unhappiness linger, she let the sadness erode and then it ended up in divorce anyway. She remembers never going back to try and patch the relationship with her mother. All those wasted years, all those times they could have compromised, all those missed holidays. Her mother had been surprisingly supportive in every aspect of her relationship with Andrea. She’d even been calling to see how the Ellis heir was doing.  
The morning has completed the transformation by the time she realizes that she is still sitting in the same corner of king sized luxury bed. It’s covered in a beautiful cobalt comforter set that matches the light accents on the wall. Her dress seems to be made for that room, for a sea of memories and waves of nostalgia.  
She picks up the phone and orders room service, strong coffee and a bagel.  
“Presto,” the Italian order taker says and ensues to tell her that it will be up in, “dieci (diechi) minutos.”  
The attendant is a young man; he’s tall, thin and polite. She smiles at him, “what is your life dream?”  
The attendant is surprised, he sets down the tray and looks at her. He’s got silver and green tones in his deep- set eyes, “I want to be an architect and hopefully make noteworthy building that will last as much as Italian history.” His answer is simple and sincere, “that’s wonderful.”  
“you’re a famous fashion editor, right?”  
He’s got a right to ask, she started the conversation to start off with.  
She nods, ‘Yes.”  
“What makes you want to know the dreams of someone like me?”  
“I … I don’t know. I guess I sometimes want to know more about people. Real people, everyday people.”  
She knows she’s saying more than she should, more than she would usually converse with any service staff. It makes her feel vulnerable and maybe that was what was missing from her life; vulnerability.  
“Mhhh,” he murmurs and looks down to the checkbook in his hands.  
She reaches out to grab it and sign.  
“What did you think I would say?” he asks curiously.  
Again, she shrugs. She’s bad at this game of spontaneity.  
“That you wanted to be an artist in Paris, or an actor in New York or something silly and grand I guess. Maybe I half expect you to say you wanted to find true love.”  
He laughs whole heartedly, “Those are big goals! I don’t know I could reach them.”  
“true love?”  
He laughs again, “Il amore! It’s … how do you Americans say…. Effervescent and then it fades.”  
“good to know,” she says. She likes this conversation, it’s different. It’s genuine and it does not involve fashion or business or anything of that sort. It reminds her of her conversations with Andrea, they were real and always made her laugh.  
“Did you find true love?” He looks down at the now signed receipt, “Ms. Priestly?”  
“I think so,” she smiles.  
“Then you must teach me,” he answers walking toward the door.  
“I don’t think I know how I found it, it found me. And it took me many years, a whole lifetime.”  
He nods, “but you found it! Signora, you found it!”  
He opens the door knob and walks out the suit.  
She had found it, hadn’t she?  
By the time she comes out of the shower the twins are knocking at the door, “Are we going to see Andy yet?”  
“I am giving her parents some room, darlings. How about I grab you a car and send you shopping? You can buy some clothes for Andrea?”  
Their eyes light up, they love shopping without her. They know it means a credit card and a fancy attendant. People always assume they have anything they want, but Miranda like their education has always strived to give them a normal childhood. Not that staying at a hotel room in Italy for weeks at a time is normal by any means but these are extraordinary circumstances.  
“Sounds like a plan,” they agree and it isn’t until much later that she meets Leila at the hospital doors. They walk in tandem to the coffee cart.  
“Shall we go light today?” Leila jokes ordering two Americanos.  
“For now,” Miranda answers smiling. It feels like such a different day. She’s happy .  
She’ll take Andrea home while she is convalescing and then she can make her stay forever.  
She smiles at the thought.  
“Andy used to say you never smiled,” Leila pauses to see the reaction of the older woman.  
There is a pout but it’s accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes.  
“Did she now?” Miranda asks curiously.  
“Before you were friends,” Leila corrects.  
“What else did Andrea use to say about me?” the editor asks curiously.  
“I think she was wrong. You haven’t even sipped your coffee and your smiling.”  
“I think you are trying to avoid answering me," She raises an eyebrow and Leila knows what Andrea meant about feeling like she was the Spanish inquisition.  
“Andy would kill me,” she says.  
“She might be kinder than me,” Miranda jokes.  
“Andrea used to love working for you,” she answers “she used to hate the hours, and the snobby attendants at the fashion houses, but she loved working for you. She used to say you were powerful, excelled at your job, you were a role model for women who want to occupy exec positions.”  
Miranda smiles, “she hated the hours?”  
“She used to talk about you for hours, your outfits, the way you liked your coffee, what you said to her, to Nigel, the blue of your eyes. I don’t know how I didn’t realize she was in love with you.”  
Miranda laughs, “you’re good at deflecting. Must be a family trait.”  
“I have learned from the best,” Leila says as they round the curb to Andrea’s room.  
Miranda shrugs they walk the short distance to the room Andy has been occupying for months and the smile that she was wearing is wiped completely from her face.  
Leila coughs nervously and Miranda feels the swoosh of her coffee cup as spills from her grip.


	29. May 2012

Leila turns to look at her and the few seconds that transcribed before Andrea said something stretch out like vicious hours in a cheap airplane seat.  
“Miranda, I was going...” Andrea says embarrassed.  
“It’s not what it looks like,” Vianney comments hurriedly wiping her lips from the kiss they were found in.  
Leila bites her lips, “Andy? What’s going on?”  
“I don’t think it looks like anything more than what it is,” Miranda states.  
She needs an explanation but she doesn’t want it. What was Andrea playing at?  
“I’m leaving,” Vianney says and pulls Leila with her.  
Miranda realizes she’s still holding the coffee that has spilled on her hands unto her brown Italian leather shoes.  
“Should I wait for an explanation or just leave?” She is angry and sad and confused. She refuses to cry though the undeniable knot in the pit of her stomach threatens to shed tears.  
“I was going to tell you before the accident, then yesterday you were so worried. I couldn’t...”  
“And the airport?” She asks rendering to the tarmac at Boston international.  
“It was after...”  
Miranda sips the coffee.  
“I’m sorry… I should have…” Andrea whispers looking away from questioning blue.  
“Don’t...” Miranda wants to ask, wants to shake the young woman up and down and ask her why. Yet, she swore that if Andrea ever wanted to leave, she’d let her. She only wants her happiness.  
“I am going to go find a plane,” she whispers back.  
“Miranda ….”  
She doesn’t hear whatever else the recovering brunette says she just wants to get out of there as fast as she can. She closes the door to the room and sets the half empty coffee in a shelf nearby. She walks toward the back door of the hospital because she doesn’t want to see Viviane, but the young blonde is waiting for her.  
“Miranda!! It’s not what it looks like. I don’t know what she said... let me explain...”  
“Don’t,” she says hushing the young blonde, ‘You could have told me months ago,” she refutes.  
“Told you what?” Vianney asks.  
“You could have spared me the concerned scene with the Italian lady and how you were stepping away,” Miranda explains and she knows she should not have.  
“I did, this is all because...” Vianney tries to say but the elevator door closes on her.  
Inside Miranda lets the tears fall like torrents. Outside Vianey is pushing the button frantically before running down the flight of emergency stairs in vain. When she gets to the parking lot Miranda has left. 

“What did you tell her? What the hell Andrea?” Vianey marches in the room.  
She has explained everything to Leila while they waited for Miranda to exit the room.  
The diagnosis of the two doctors as they tested her motor skills. That Andrea would not walk normally again. That it will take a lot of recovery to get her out of a wheelchair.  
The few minutes that elapsed between the Italian neurosurgeon and the General surgery doctors walking out and the distinctive sound of Miranda’s heels. The rapid motion of Andrea pulling her into a kiss and the scene that unfolded.  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” The young brunette sais and closes her eyes.  
“You don’t want to talk about it?? That woman loves you... she’s been here for weeks. She ... “  
“I don’t want her to be stuck with an invalid,” Andrea says stubbornly as tears spring from her eyes.  
“That is the worst excuse. She won’t care, you are her world and those girls have been here, reading to you, praying for you. Don’t you think they deserve the truth?”  
“No. She won’t leave if I tell her,” Andrea whispers, resolution wavering.  
“She wants to be with you. Don’t be like your mother.”  
“How dare you?” Andrea raises her voice.  
“You broke her heart, again,” Vianey pushes back.  
Andrea is silent.  
“And what’s more. You used me.”  
“Don’t tell her,” Andrea threatens.  
“You have no say on what I do. I get that you’re hurting, that you’re sick but that gives you no excuse.”  
“just leave me alone!” Andrea exclaims like a hurt child.  
“Oh! I have no problem with that! I’m going to leave you alone forever.”  
For the second time in a day Leila sees yet another woman scamper off from her sisters room. She knows why Andrea did what she did. She knows it’s wrong.  
She knows her sister is stubborn but she hopes that she’ll come around in a day or two.  
She’s wrong. The four days of tests come to an end. Andrea is released with strict orders, pills and a doctor to see in Paris. She decided somewhere between her sister, her father and even her mother asking her to reconsider her actions towards Miranda that being abroad would be best for all. She’s told about the inheritance and how now she’s richer than she ever thought. How ironic now that she’s economically on the same playing field as her lover, she’s lost something even more precious.  
“You’re torturing yourself and her,” her sister insists a few months later when she comes to visit her in Paris.  
Leila visited often, she was the only one that Andrea let so. Leila would stay in the spare bedroom of the beautiful turn of the century apartment the young magnate had purchased. Each door was decorated with ornate carvings and Belle Époque paintings in wall stands. Andrea had been in the main room, starting at the closed shutters, tears silently drowning her.  
“Can you imagine her stuck to me? Wheeling me into the Met Gala or some other ridiculous event?”  
Leila stays quiet opting instead to open the large shutters and window panes that reveal a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower and the grounds below it. The million- dollar view or millions of Euros in this case.  
“So… you plan to hide here forever? She owns part of ...” Leila is cut off by exasperated words.  
“Part of the company, I know. That’s why I have lawyers for.”  
Leila shakes her head, “This is ridiculous.”  
“You have no idea how I feel,” the ex-journalist turns to her younger sister. There is something akin to reproach in her eyes and her hands are knotted tightly in a sign or anxiety.  
“You’re right. I don’t. I only know that you are lucky enough to have support from both sides of this equation. So many others would want their parents to agree to their partner choice...” again she’s cut off by Andrea.  
“I should thank my lucky stars that my family accepts me as lesbian. That they agree with basic human rights... Alleluia!”  
Leila has stepped out into the balcony and Andrea has moved to the edge the portico.  
“You were given this chance to be happy and you’re wasting it.”  
“If that’s all you’ve got to say, you’ve said it,” Andrea’s words signify the end of a conversation.  
“She’s not the same you know,” Leila throws out a few seconds later as Andrea is about to reach the other end of the room. She stops the wheelchair.  
“I saw her,” Leila speaks.  
“You went to New York?”  
“I met Erik and her there, we talked business,” a pause, “we sent you the notice.”  
Andrea nods. She remembers now. Leila sent her an invitation to a board meeting. Then they sent her the minutes.  
“I went to her house after. You changed her.”  
“That’s not what the newspapers say.”  
Leila wants to point out that the fact that she’s following up on her says a lot put doesn’t bring it up.  
“Not to the media or in her job,” she stops, “but privately there is a softness to her.  
She looks sad and her words lack that effectiveness. She asked me about you and Vianney.”  
“Did you break the promise?”  
“Miranda would have been here already if I had.”  
“I doubt it.”  
“You’re not the same Andrea I used to know,” Leila whispers but Andrea can hear her.  
“I’ll call the airline for your ticket home,” the brunette tells her sister.  
“Don’t worry, I’ll have Claude drive me now.” Her strong steps are heard laterally as she opens a second door to the right that leads out of the room. She does so before Andrea can respond.  
“I got engaged to Oscar last week,” she drops casually at the door. Andrea feels a pang of annoyance at her sister’s words. Why does she get to have it all? Why hadn’t she said a thing?  
“I’m sure it’s convenient for him to have a rich girlfriend now,” she says instead. She didn’t mean to but she does. Most of her words are now hurtful and sarcastic.  
“I’ll send the invitation to the wedding,” the younger Sachs states as she adds, “don’t bother going. I can’t imagine wheeling you down the aisle.”  
The door to the room closes and she’s filled with sadness and anger she knows she caused herself. Leila doesn’t return for months the two sisters don’t speak.  
The only time Andrea sees her is at another board meeting she decides to attend.  
It’s in the Boston headquarters, all the major investors are present except the only one she was hoping would be. Miranda had sent her representative instead, her accountant and her lawyer. At the end of the meeting the board is met with the news that she has decided to sell her shares, relinquishing control when the time happens. The family will be given the opportunity to absorb the shares first before they go on sale publicly.  
“Isn’t this what grandpa didn’t want?” Andrea comments as she sits with only Erick and Leila at the main office after the meeting. The date would be given at a later meeting, they had been told.  
“I’m sure he also meant for you and her to stay together,” Leila says her honey colored eyes looking away from Andrea. Erick catches Leila’s glimpse and they share an all-knowing look.  
“He didn’t even know us,” the brunette says and thought she knows the statement isn’t fair she drops it nonetheless. Her words sit in the room motionless as her hands that rest on her lap, on her Ferragamo suit, and her Prada purse.  
“You have no right to say that,” Erick protests, “he wasn’t perfect but he was kind and he took you in like nothing had ever happened.”  
Andrea knows that Erik is right, she knows that what she has said was disrespectful and uncalled for. She knows that it wasn’t her grandfather’s fault for not knowing her, it was her mother’s and then her own. She knows that Robert was kind and funny and caring.  
“I’m sorry,” she offers sincerely. Apology which both her cousin and her brother take.  
“How is the wedding planning going?” he asks tactfully to her sister.  
“Good,” is all the response she gets and she’s aware of the words that were traded four months before. This is the first time they talk, they had not spoken during the holidays and Andrea had only sent a few gifts and called her parent’s. She had become a complete recluse, drinking vodka and watching the news. She still looked up news for Miranda and was extremely relieved that she did not decide to play another game of pretend with dates splashed across the media.  
Miranda was rarely seen now, she had been notoriously absent from a few big -name events, aside from fashion week and New York galas. She had been photographed at Martha’s vineyard with the twins a few weeks ago. She seemed to be alone with the girls.  
“I’ve got to go,” Leila states grabbing her bag and kissing both people on the cheek. Erick stays and there is a long silence before he asks, “how is therapy going?”  
“As always,” she says.  
She hates talking about it, she’s been going for months now. Every two days she gets to be forced to push herself up on bars, she’s forced to try to walk, to hang out stupidly in the pool. Every two days she’s forced to have someone move her legs around, massage them and tell her that it’s looking better. Every two days she falls and the humiliation has many times made her call off the session. She’s glad she’s alone, she would hate for her family to be here. She would hate for Miranda to fuss over her like the invalid she is. She’s pondered stopping it. She doesn’t see the point it. Her parents insist she do it and her doctors say it is necessary. It is a complete torture for her. The only reason why she doesn’t is because there is a small hope in her that she will able to walk again. If she can walk again, she can have her life back. She can have Miranda back. She can have Andrea back.  
So far it hasn’t worked, she keeps falling every time she tries to stand up and she still can’t use the hand braces yet.  
“La patience, ma petite!” her physical therapist tells her all the time.  
Patience is a whore, keeping so many flames and never committing to a single one. She hates patience and her optimistic therapist, but they are all she has. 

“You don’t think she was lying?” Nigel asks. They don’t normally talk about Andrea, they don’t normally talk about anything other than photographs and spreads. This time he had walked in on Miranda holding a picture she still keeps of the two somewhere in Paris. She was holding it like one holds a precious pearl. She was staring at it so intensely she missed Nigel coming in.  
“I don’t see why she would lie?” she answers, setting the frame down.  
“Have you talked to her?” he asks.  
“Do you ever talk to your exes?” she deadpans.  
“You both are major stockholders …” he starts.  
“I … I’m selling the shares. It will be the final connection to her.”  
“Why did you keep them?” he asks sitting down across from her.  
She looks down at the glass desk, so many conversations have been shared over this pane of glass.  
“Loyalty,” she tosses out like she was tossing out orders to her assistant.  
“To six?” he asks.  
She looks caught. She raises her eyebrows and purses her lips.  
“No, I don’t think so. I felt obliged to Robert.”  
“The man you didn’t know?” he asks.  
She nods. He knows she doesn’t want to answer the question by the silence.  
“Are my question boring you? Or you just don’t want to admit that you did it because you were hoping Andrea would be back?”  
“Your questions always bore me Nigel.”  
He laughs.  
“I wasn’t …” she starts and he looks over at her. There is a knowing glance, he’s seen her cry over Andrea, over the discovery of Patrice, over the accident, he’s seen the whole relationship first hand.  
“Well maybe.”  
That was all he was going to get from her.  
“Have you tried reaching he?’  
She shakes her silver hair, “no. If that leggy blonde makes her happy then so be it,” a long sigh comes from her chest.  
“Now what did you walk in here to tell me?”  
She crosses her arms over her long flowery skirt, “that Rhianna want’s blue for the May cover, we said blue is not a spring color but she insists.”  
“Tell her people no, they won’t pull out. Compromise on something aside from pink and have Ralph Lauren do the clothes.”  
“Will do,” he says and walks out of the office.  
He shakes his head, “he liked six. He still does, but he can’t phantom why she would leave Miranda for some other boring blonde. What’s more he can’t see why she would do it after how hard she had tried to get Miranda to her. Love was indeed a mystery. He would have to call her soon.


	30. New York

Miranda stared at the toothbrush sitting in her bathroom. She hadn’t noticed it before, it was stored in the cabinet below the sink. Like a stowaway hiding in a gold-toned holder  
a décor made to complement the rose -colored marble that made the whole of her bathroom. The toothbrush sat there as it probably had for over three years now. Different thoughts crossed her mind, why hadn’t any of the maids cleaned it? She certainly paid them enough to be attentive to details. Why had Cara not noticed it? She was in her room often enough besides she was supposed to be in charge of the house. Why was it catching her attention now? Why was it necessary for her to have this stored under her sink? It was definitely frustrating to know her staff at home were inept too. What did they think she wanted a toothbrush holder with a used toothbrush for? All those once sentence thoughts danced across her mind, the annoyance splayed out in her ocean colored eyes as she kneeled with the cabinet door opened in her silk McCarthy pajama. Yet, however pervasive all those thoughts were, the only one that caught her attention more than all the others was that today was four years ago that she asked Andrea to move in. Four years ago, Andrea had accepted amid kisses and apologies of some understated fight. How ironic that she should find this toothbrush today. Maybe she was looking for it. She was looking for reminders and excuses. Four years ago, they also had found out who Andrea’s mother was and two years ago Andrea had almost died. It all came down to dates and numbers and tears. Miranda gets up from her crouched position, her feet started to ache from the balancing act. She drops the toothbrush and the offending container in the trash, she drops it from far above, they make a swoosh sound, they thud loudly in the empty metal bucket. She stared at them for some time, more than anyone ever stares at a trashcan and then she walks away. She’ll have to ask the maids about it, she’ll have to make it clear that an old toothbrush for years in that cabinet is unacceptable. It had been almost seven years since she met Andrea, the smart fat girl. She smiles, she can’t believe she said that. She can’t believe a lot about their years of knowing each other. It was all pretty incredible, the story. And eventually it had been Andrea who had chosen to leave her, how dare she! A nobody breaks up with Miranda Priestly. It didn’t matter that she was a billionaire, she was still a nobody and she was well the Editor of Runway, the organizer of the most exclusive invitation party in the nation, she was fucking Miranda Priestly. Four years ago, her life could have been completely different. How terribly sobering.  
Maybe she should call Andrea, she thinks as she sets her glasses down in the middle of her workday. Expensive glass on expensive glass, her glasses sit there as she walks from one side of the office to the other. The twins still ask about her and she did send them an email earlier that year. There is no reason why she can’t be friends with them, she was a good influence. She can’t call her that would be like begging. She can’t have the twins call, what if she rejects them?  
The coffee arrives, a simple vanilla latte with soy milk, extra foam, extra hot. She sips it. She never drank the whole coffee, that much coffee would be harmful for her skin and health. She only ever drank half out of two in the day it only equaled one. Sometimes she’d have an extra one. Today was that day. She would have Emily find the number for Andrea, for the new apartment she had bought somewhere in Paris. She could ask …  
“Miranda the Cleveland shoot are we still?” Nigel says standing in the arc of her doorway.  
Miranda shows the smallest of smiles, Nigel stops his words.  
“Yes, we are still doing it,” she finishes the sentence for him.  
“But … it’s” he continues, though there is not point trying to contradict the diva.  
“Serena’s team wants that location,” she explains. She shouldn’t have to, he should know. Normally he’d let him figure out what was happening. Today is not normal. She thinks about asking him.  
“Nigel …” she ponders.  
“Miranda?”  
There is something hanging in the air, she’s about to ask him. The older man would do, he’d do it for his friend. He would do it for the sake of love.  
“Miranda, you have a Vianey on hold?”  
The name sounds extremely familiar for a second, it screeches caution. For a few disorienting moments, she can’t pinpoint who that is or why she feels mixed emotions cursing through her body that had now been long forgotten. Then she remembers and her whole-body composure shifts. Her back straightens and she leans on her left heel, her chin raises upwards, her hands tense and her gaze hardens.  
“Put her through,” she says.  
The call blinks, she picks up the phone and hangs up.  
Nigel is about to say something but chooses to close his lips instead. He knows his boss, it had to be someone that she can’t be polite too. It also had to be someone who was unimportant in the fashion world. It most certainly was a personal matter, but who?  
“Anything else?” he asks, waiting for whatever she was going to ask before the interruption.  
She shakes her head, “solve Serena.”  
She means the shoot that everyone at Runway was dreading, it was cold in Ohio. There was nothing to photograph in Ohio and the state had been plagued a racists protest turned into violence. For an unknown reason the PR team belonging to famous tennis player had selected a location in Ohio for the cover page. Fighting with them had proven as fruitful as if Miranda herself had lost a match against the tennis player.  
“Got it,” he answers and walks off. He had forgotten about calling Andrea, he had forgotten about her for so long. Since that conversation with Miranda over a year ago. He had forgotten because Miranda had somehow returned to her old self, perhaps even worse than before she met Andrea. She had returned to cataloguing assistants like they did pairs of shoes in the closet.  
She had returned to her coffee runs, her early run troughs. In the eyes of everyone she had returned to being the same. And thus, he had forgotten about how hurt she had seemed. He had forgotten about how sad she had been and now that he thought about it she had to feel the same. He knew from personal experience that contrary to that stupid myth time did not heal all wounds.  
“Emily get me Ms. Sachs number in Paris. Miranda wants to seal some signatures for her sale of the shares,” he instructs. The explanation is a lie but he knows Emily would never dare ask Miranda and he also wants to keep office chatter to a minimum not that she’d say anything because she doesn’t even work in this department. She was now the new Assistant Director of Make-up. She had come up to do some work for a past due article.  
“I don’t work here any….” She started.  
“Save it, “ he reprimanded, “don’t you dare forget who recommended you.”  
“I’ll send it over by end of day,” she hisses and walks off.  
Nigel smiles, “Emily was a handful. All assistants always were. They had to be,” he thinks.  
Who else would want to work under the Dragon Lady, although Andrea takes the cake. Who wants to date her? He smiles to himself again. He still though they were perfect for each other, he’d call six as soon as he got home.

“Miranda!” she hears the soft call from nearby. There is a sudden move from her chauffeur to stand in front of her and then she notices. The young woman standing on the other side of Roy.  
“I thought it was clear last time,” she starts. She can’t believe the nerve of this woman. She can’t understand what she could possibly want.  
“You didn’t let me explain then,” the blonde lets out almost defeated.  
She nods to Roy who steps back. The young woman was wearing a black wrap dress and red flats. She had on a tan Prada coat and her hair was pulled back. She didn’t resemble the woman who she had met at the hospital years ago.  
“Explain what?” Miranda caves in.  
“I would rather explain all this over coffee,” she says but it really is a question.  
Miranda looks down to her watch, and toward Roy. The door to the Mercedes is open, she could ask Vianney to step inside the car. That would be pointless, some car honks at Roy. He’s been parked too long.  
“Well walk to Victor’s,” she says to her uniformed chauffeur.  
He nods.  
“come pick me up in 20 minutes,” she instructs and without a word he glides into traffic. Roy knows that Victors in only about five minutes walking distance from Elias Clarke. He knows that when Miranda says 20 she means 15, which leaves that girl with ten minutes to talk.  
He’s absolutely right. The elegant coffee shop is a secret for many who simply pass the street but it’s a popular place for executives, creatives and politicians who roam the impressive sky scrapers on this street. The coffee is the closest to Vienna coffee, Miranda has ever tasted outside of Vienna and the atmosphere is full of class and peace.  
They sit at a corner booth made or green velvet and the petite brunette server takes their order less than 30 seconds after they are sat. It takes a full two minutes for the coffee to come back and for Miranda to lean slightly back and say, “So explain then…”  
Vianney is down to about eight minutes. She draws breath in and says, “Andrea and I are not together, we never were.”


	31. The absolution

Miranda is still leaning back, she takes a sip of her white porcelain cup rimmed in blue and sighs. There is a moment of hesitation, she looks at the door to the two men in navy blue suits and tan tie that have walked in.  
“Does she know them?” There is a trace of distraction when she looks back at Vianney and she looks bored, “you say that like I care.”  
“I know you do,” Vianney affirms her own coffee is sitting firmly on the table, steam lifting from the dark brown façade.  
“You seem pretty sure, I’m going to have to disappoint. It doesn’t matter to me, Andrea and I was a long time ago,” Miranda says completely assured looking down at her watch. Five minutes.  
“Cut the bullshit, Miranda. We both know how much this matters,” Vianney challenges back.  
Miranda raises an eyebrow her sharp blue eyes narrow at the insult and her lips purse. Peace is hanging in the balance. She shakes her head at the young expecting blonde on the opposite side of the booth. Curiosity is eroding her from inside, what could this woman possibly gain by coming to her. Miranda hadn’t bothered to delve much but she knew that Vianney was wealthy, that in a way she formed part of the Ellis inner circle. She knew there was not a thing Miranda had that this socialite could not get. Why come? Yes, she was curious but the more she let people around talk about Andrea the less she’d get over it all.  
“That was unnecessary and vulgar,” Miranda says getting out of the booth and up, “Goodbye.”  
Vianney doesn’t have to do this, she has no need to plead. Her hand pulls out to grab the editor’s, “Andrea can’t walk.”  
It slides of her tongue like melted ice cream of a cone. It’s soft and harmonious the way the words come together. They are the truth. The truth that had been in the back of her mind for the better part of last year. She was about to leave for Bali, she was going to live there for a few years. She was taking yoga classes and she could not leave without clarifying what she should have clarified that day in Brescia. It may not be her truth to tell, but it involved her and therefore it became her truth.  
“Besides I have nine minutes left, aren’t you going to honor your word?”  
Miranda contemplates the words that have just left the woman’s mouth. Her hand is still caught in warm white ones. She looks at her watch, she knows Roy will be early.  
“Four,” she says sitting down, “start with Andrea and what you meant?”  
Vianney nods and sips coffee rapidly. For a few brief moments Miranda looks at the blonde, her face is pleasant. Her eyes are expressive, they smile even when she doesn’t. Her lashes pop out and her blonde hair tied in a ponytail is cascading in curls over the simple attire she wears.  
“The accident damaged her spine. She found out that day at the hospital, moments before you walked in. She didn’t feel her legs, she could not move them, the doctors said she’d need a lot of therapy.”  
“You’ve known all this time?” Miranda asks.  
Vianney nods, “Andrea didn’t want you to know.”  
“The kiss and the scene …” Miranda already knows the answer to her question but she asks anyway. She asks because she wants to hear the blonde say it.  
“It was fake. She pulled me in, I tried to run after you. When I got to the parking lot you were gone. She made me promise, made us all promise.”  
“Why did she not want me to know? Did she think lying to me was better? That I would not love her the same?”  
Vianney shrugs and finally sips the rest of her coffee. “she knew you’d love her no matter what and she didn’t want to be a burden in your life and the twins.”  
“Mmhh,” Miranda purses her lips. She looks at her watch, it’s past the four minutes she had allotted.  
“I’m leaving for Bali in two days Miranda, I’ll be there for unknown time. I had to tell you the truth before leaving.”  
Miranda nods again, she doesn’t know what to say and she doesn’t want to answer this woman. She should be thankful for her honesty, for her care, for …. But she’s not. She’s unsure of what happens now.  
“Does Andrea know?” Miranda asks.  
Again, the ex-pilot turned yogi shakes her head, “she has made a lot of progress Miranda. Go see her…” she slides a white page neatly folded into four across the table.  
Miranda takes it and gets up nodding, “good luck Vianney,” she whispers loud enough for her companion to hear as she breezes away into the busy street. Vianney is left there with two empty cups of coffee and a free conscience. She had done the right thing, hadn’t she?

“Yes mother… I have been doing my therapy,” Andrea said irritated into the phone. Her mother called every so often to check on her.  
“Yes, dad seemed fine…”  
“I am not going to ask if he’s seeing anyone, I doubt it mom…”  
“Mom … “  
“I am not going on a blind date…”  
“Mom dad left two days ago, I’m sure he has bought food already…”  
“Then why don’t you ask him?”  
“that’s what I thought so….”  
“You can come anytime, yes I talked to her…”  
“I am not calling Miranda, mom that was two years ago? Will we ever stop talking about it?”  
“Mom, first you wanted us to be apart…”  
“Yes, I know she talked to you. Leila told me…”  
“Now you insist in getting me back with her, I don’t understand?”  
“You don’t want her to suffer? Oh gee thanks…”  
“Mom, I have to go…”  
“Yes I know you love me…”  
“I am not sad. Leila is lying…”  
“Mom I really have to go. My therapist is here…”  
“You don’t believe me?”  
“Would you like to talk to him?”  
“No, I’m not making Jean talk to you. He speaks French…”  
“Oh yes I forgot…”  
“My mother the socialite…”  
“I know. I’m not being sarcastic…”  
‘Mom, I’m hanging up…”  
“I love you… I’ll call dad. Bye.”  
No sooner has she hung up when she hears the familiar rustle of Adele’s keys.  
“Tsk, tsk you lied to your mother,” she reprimands jokingly.  
Adele came with high recommendations for watching over the household.  
“My mother is so confusing. Now she wants me to call M… my ex. It doesn’t matter now.”  
“Ah, but it does. I can see it in your eye, ma Cherie,” she says in groomed English but the French in her accent is evident. She has watched over Andrea for the whole time she’s been in Paris. She not only manages the house but keeps track of appointments, meetings, and the like.  
“I’m fine as is. I like my life here in Paris,” Andrea says.  
“But do you really? You’re not watching the company like your grandfather wanted.”  
“I can’t … “  
“Don’t be ridiculous Andrea, of course you can. You just choose not to,” the French woman says. She has long brown hair always straightened out and her eyes are always focused on who she is talking to. She’s dressed to the nines every day, French chic you could say.  
Andrea laughs, “you sounded just like her.”  
“Like who?”  
Andrea shakes her head, “I want to go out to that café down rue Avignon, help me yeah?”  
Adele nods, “I suppose so.” Her words drip with friendly annoyance and entwine with her accent. She help Andrea into the car and out to the picturesque town. Perhaps Andrea had chosen Paris because it reminded her of two very important times. The first fashion week where she had left Miranda and then when they came together. The later had a good outcome, those were good days. She daydreams for a second after the waiter has dropped her coffee with the traditional chocolate on the side. The view from this coffee shop is not magnificent, nothing you will find in a Conde Nast publication. It does not pan out to the Eiffel tower or Notre Dame. Either way you look there are only cobblestones, a few other cafes and shops. There is a dance school at the edge of the street and little girls dressed in tutus sometimes waltz in or out. She remembers the day when Miranda shared this coffee shop with her, the mindless conversation.  
“Do you remember what I said when you came back to Runway?” the voice comes from right in front of her. It isn’t part of her memory. It connects to the pale hand resting on the wicker chair. It’s perfectly manicured and rises up to meet blue eye and silver hair.  
Andrea takes a deep breath, “I’m not known for giving second chances, Andrea…”  
She says her own name in the airy resolute way that Miranda herself would say it. She’s looking up at Miranda for the first time in two years, at the all black skirt and peacoat ensemble that screamed 1940’s fashion diva. Miranda has one hand resting on the chair and the other is at her waist holding a silk clutch that match black silk pumps. Only Miranda would wear black silk shoes in the streets on Paris. Like a walking fashion show, complete with nude lipstick and inquisitive look.  
“Did I disappoint?” Andrea answers sarcastically. She can feel the older woman’s gaze over her. She wants nothing more than for the editor to hold her hand, or cup her face or hold her. She can see the thoughts racing in her ex-lover’s head and she can see her take note of the walking cane on the chair next to her. Andrea had made a lot of progress indeed, she could now walk but needed a cane to lean on for support. She looked just as elegant if not more than before. Like a lady out of a Victorian book. Today she was wearing high waisted pants and a bow blouse. Her locks were blown out in large vintage curls and her doe like eyes gazed upward, pleading at Miranda. She could be mean, she had a right to be so.  
“Why did you lie to me, Andrea?” she asks still standing.  
She’s an imposing figure towering over the brunette, although without the heels Andrea is always taller.  
“I… I didn’t want you to be tied to me.”  
The editor scoffs, “that was my choice to make.”  
“I … wouldn’t have survived if you decided to leave,” Andrea confesses, “perhaps I’m guarding myself. I was bracing for the moment you grew tired of wheeling me around town.” Her words are bitter and opaque.  
“But, you can walk now,” Miranda corrects.  
Andrea nods.  
“Are you going to join me? Or did you just come to reproach?”  
Miranda pulls the seat out and sits down, “you really think so little of me? After everything? You thought I would leave you? Or grow tired of you?”  
Andrea looks down at the wooden table and she can see the waiter’s feet as Miranda orders a black coffee in perfect French.  
“Andrea?”  
“I don’t know Miranda, there was no guarantees I’d walk,” she excuses.  
“So, you thought, I was superficial enough to grow tired of the woman I had sworn to love. That I would abandon you in some New York penthouse while I cavorted around town in gala events? “  
“No,” the young brunette shakes her head and shields her eyes from the setting sun.  
“I don’t understand then…”  
“I’m sorry,” she says.  
“you broke my heart, Andrea.”  
There is no response from the younger woman she simply keeps looking down.  
“And you broke Caroline and Cassidy’s too. They love you Andrea and it isn’t many people I let into my life, their life.”  
“What do you want Miranda?” the brunette asks as the coffee arrives.  
They sit in silence for a moment. Perhaps Miranda had always known it. She had realized it the moment she walked away from Vianney in that coffee shop. She was upset and angry with Andrea and she thought of throwing the address away without looking. She couldn’t. It wasn’t an apartment address at all. It was the address to the café that she had first taken Andrea to in Paris. It was written in neat black ink and then is said, ‘every Monday at 4pm.”  
It was then that she realized that she had always known Andrea still loved her. She had known that there must have been a deeper reason. She had known that Andrea would protect her at all costs, even if it meant protecting her against herself. She knew it, because she had done the same when she found out about Patrice. She had protected Andrea against a possible future guilt. They had both been wrong, but that was love. Imperfect in its perfection. It had no rules and no answers.  
“The question here is, what do you want?”  
For the first time, they meet eyes. Fiery blue and incandescent brown meeting for the first time that day, meeting for a lifetime.  
“You said if I disappointed you one more time…” Andrea starts with no emotion in her voice.  
“You would not write in New York city, “Miranda finishes for her. “But this is Paris and here in this very place I told you, that you changed everything.”  
“Did I?” there is hope in Andrea’s tone.  
Miranda nods, “come home with me?”  
Before Andrea can saw anything Miranda slightly throws a wedding band at her. It’s only then that Andrea notices Miranda is wearing an identical one, thin gold and diamond set. It's romantic in it's own way. There was no elaborate proposal, no wedding to attend to. It was a simple promise of two hearts that had always belonged together.  
“I accept,” are Andrea’s carefully chosen words.  
“Good, “the older woman chuckles, “We’ve waltzed around it long enough.”  
“I don’t think so Miranda, we haven’t waltzed enough. We have a whole life to waltz together,” she says as they get up and walk slowly down the street arm in arm.  
“I’m a great dance teacher," Miranda says.  
“Somehow, I think I will find out all those moves tonight,” Andrea whispers, Miranda laughs and time seems to patch up as if not a day has passed since the last time they were here. That was life, just like that. "So is this my second chance?" "This is the like fifth one, just don't tell the press."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had made you all suffer long enough. I hope you liked the story.  
> We will definitely be checking up on them ... maybe in a glimpse or two.  
> For now I've got some other new story ideas.


	32. Thunder and Sparkling Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow up on Andrea, Miranda and the twins. In time for the holidays, five years after Paris.

Everything seemed set, the miniature lights dotted across the wall decorations, like winter fireflies in between the rich holiday colors. The garland strum from the beautiful staircase and a subtle gold glow bathed the foyer and the living room. The fireplace was lit and decorated with frosted hues of blue. Royal blue for the glass spheres from Baccarat and celeste accents from Armani hung with Navy blue and Turquoise hues that made the leaves of the adornments. The dining room table had a beautiful centerpiece courtesy of her decorator, and the tree that stood tall and proud in the main foyer sparkled with the light of a thousand diamonds. Anyone that entered and saw the house in full splendor would have only one thought, Christmas perfection.  
Miranda wasn’t anyone though, and she paced slowly down the house. She was going over every detail and every corner.  
“There is a chipped ornament here,” she said to no one in particular and out of the blue came a thin, blonde woman noting the exact place and scurrying away to replace it.  
She was wearing 6 inch Valentino heels, they were precariously too thin in their shiny black grandeur as they matched the black cashmere turtleneck of said designer. She didn’t look particularly festive save for a tartan shawl that hung loosely over her shoulders and forearms.  
“You look worried,” comes the thin voice of a younger brunette leaning against the door frame. She’s sporting her flannel pajamas still, long straight hair past her waist hangs around as she holds two cups of coffee and a cane in her forearm.  
Miranda turns sharply and smiles, “Good morning,” she leans her head to the left and looks at the woman in front of her. It’s hard to imagine that tomorrow it will be 10 years since the young brunette came for the first time as a guest to the townhome. She looks so much more mature now, next month she will turn 35 and it will be 5 years to the day that they have been together.  
“I made you coffee,” Andrea voices extending her hand, waiting for the silver haired editor to come to her.  
“You did?” she arches her brow and takes the silly Santa Claus cup from her lovers hand.  
“Well Cara did, but I added the cup,” the brunette winks.  
“well, that explains it. I though Cara had suddenly acquired poor taste,” she says flatly.  
Andrea chuckles, “should I be hurt?”  
“Never,” Miranda whispers and leans in to kiss Andrea.  
“You didn’t answer my question,” she proves again.  
“No, I’m not worried,” Miranda says softly running her hand over the brunettes arms before walking back to inspect the garland.  
“You always wear those Valentino heels when you’re worried, or when you have a board meeting.”  
It’s true, Miranda has certain habits, that Andrea has now memorized by heart. She likes hot coffee, she wears Valentino when she is worried, she wears Chanel to show power, she wears Donatella whenever she’s got a party to go, she wears a Ralph Lauren coat when her mother comes to visit.  
“I do not,” she says.  
“Just like you don’t wear the Tiffany earrings I gave you every year for the first day of Fashion Week?”  
Miranda chuckles, “you got me there.”  
“So?” the brunette is still expectant. Miranda looks worried, more than the shoes, there is a furrow in her brow, she’s being overly detail oriented and her eyes are storm blue.  
“I just … we haven’t had a holiday dinner since…” she stops.  
When Andrea refused to come home with Miranda after the accident, when Miranda thought that Andrea had stopped loving her she stopped holding Christmas dinners. It was all too much, too soon.  
“Since Italy,” Andrea always knows how to soften everything.  
That was why Miranda loved her, that was why it was so easy with her. That was why she had become so dependent on the brunette. In another time, it would have frightened Miranda, she would have been afraid. Afraid that the brow eyed beauty in front of her would leave her, leave her for someone younger, someone prettier, someone who had no kids, a non-workaholic, a kinder, funnier, smarter person. Not anymore, not after all they had been through.  
“Yes, since Italy,” she admits and inhales sharply.  
“Well, everything is going to be fine, great, fantastic.”  
“I know,” Miranda smiles. Her eyes sparkle in celeste blue, they are just like the sky after a storm. They are clear blue, clouds floating in them.  
“My mother, is coming, and the twins will be home, and Caroline is bringing a boy home… I’m very nervous.”  
“And the truth comes out,” Andrea smiles.  
“It’s not funny Andrea, this isn’t a story you can write into a book!”  
“I wasn’t going to, that’s been written already,” she smiles.  
Miranda drinks the last of the coffee, “I have to go, the caterer comes at 12.”  
“everything will be fine, your mother loves me,” she pauses for emphasis.  
“that is true,” Miranda nods.  
“And the rest will be good, it’s Christmas after all babe,” she says and Miranda rolls her eyes. She hates it when Andrea calls her babe, which is all the time. She hates it, it irritates her. Just like Andrea insisting to drive all over New York, she’s going to pick up the twins from JFK. It drives her up the edge, that is why she has Roy. She shakes her head, Andrea is an infuriating woman; yet, she’s perfect for her.

Andrea is right of course, the party goes as planned. The crystals sparkle in the low light, the pianist plays all the right notes, the caterer outdoes herself and her mother brings dreidels for them. Andrea handles everything perfectly, she awes and shines in her tight-fitting gold Donna Karan cocktail dress. It is a full- length gown, with fringe on the swoop back, her hair is half up in curls and her lips are just pink enough to stand out. She mingles expertly, learned after all these years with Miranda. There is no trace of the shy, beauty review writer that had come years ago. Her mother sits and chats with the twins and Ray, Caroline’s boyfriend is from Rhode Island. He knows the Ellis family, he’s brother interned at the company years ago. It was a nice turn of events.  
Miranda stands back tonight, it throws people off momentarily but if they stood with her from where she is, they would understand perfectly. From her view point a the far corner of the hallway, she can see the guests in their beautiful gowns, Donatella in midnight blue tulle, the Rodante sisters in cream silk and red wool. She can see her daughters in Cassidy’s new ethically sourced line of clothing chatting with their grandmother who is elegantly dressed in a Ralph Lauren Miranda gifted her two years ago. Their relationship is rocky to say the least, but they get along well, the older Priestly loves Andrea for some unknown reason, perhaps it’s the Midwest charm, that has to be it. From where she is leaning against the wall decorated with the miniature firefly lights that sparkly like stars suspend on a midnight Cleary, she can see Cara in her casual wear supervising the catering staff as she sips a glass of wine. She can see her wife, though they never officially got married, talking animatedly with Ryan and her father Richard. The glow that bathes the room gives them a warm like quality, like they are a page taken from a Saks add. Tonight, she decided to wear vintage Chanel, a little black dress, elegant and timeless. Her dress was just like the scene she was witnessing, beautiful and everlasting.  
“You’re standing all alone here, what is a beautiful woman with a beautiful dress doing here? Don’t you know there is a woman out there who just told me she loves you?” Andrea jokes after missing Miranda for a while.  
“Did she now?” the editor asks following the lines.  
“Yes, she said she’s madly in love with you, that she has been so since you spoke to her at a company event,” Andrea confesses.  
“Is that so? She sure led me on to believe otherwise,” Miranda says.  
“She told me in the uttermost confidence that she has loved you since she saw you, and she wants to marry you.”  
“I think you’re going to have to break the news to her,” Miranda says completely serious, “I’m already married, and madly in love with this infuriating brunette.”  
“Mmmmhhh,” Andrea leans in to kiss her.

The guest all leave right before 1am, the twins retire to their rooms, and Ryan to the guest room. Andrea, Miranda and Cara sit alone as the staff cleans up and the lights tire of twinkling.  
“It was truly beautiful Miranda,” Andrea winks.  
“I agree with Andy,” Cara says getting up the sofa and squeezing her boss’s shoulder, “I’m off to bed, Merry Christmas.”  
The couple nods and repeats the phrase back to her. Miranda looks at Andrea again and realizes that she doesn’t regret a single thing, not that she ever thought she did after flying out to Paris five years ago. Tonight, was just confirmation of it, that she doesn’t’ regret that impromptu flight to Paris, the walk over cobblestone streets to the little café, she doesn’t regret the first invitation at Christmas, the night at the theater, the first New Year’s watching the fireworks, the first New Years in bed, she doesn’t regret fashion week, of Ohio or all the anguish over the Ellis state, it all led her here. It all had led her to tonight and many more nights like these.  
Andrea puts her feet over Miranda’s lap, they are a sign of domesticity. Both have taken of their shoes, Andrea her flats, Miranda her heels. Miranda puts her hand over her lover’s calf’s and turns sharply to her lover, “You know Caroline will marry that boy, right?”  
Andrea nods, grabbing the remaining wine.  
“and you know we will have to do this party every year again, right?”  
Andrea nods again.  
“You know your mother will come sooner or later, don’t you?”  
The brunette nods for a third time. There is calms and amusement in her chocolate orbs.  
“And you know that Nigel plans to quit and partner with my own daughter,” there is a chuckle at the end of all that.  
“He told me tonight,” Andrea finally speaks.  
Who would have thought we’d be here?”  
“You know we have New years to ourselves, right?” there is a delicious sexual undertone to Andrea’s words and Miranda nods.  
“But," Miranda starts, " I bet you don’t know how much I love you, I love you more than I thought was possible. I bet you didn’t know you have become so vital to me, that I need you close to breathe, to feel at peace, and that I am no longer afraid that you’ll leave one day.”  
She doesn’t know why she says that, “you’re not?”  
Miranda shakes her head not as sure anymore, “that was a stupid thing to say.”  
“I do know how much you love me, and how much you need me, and how sure you are of what we have. I have always known it, because I feel the same way.”

It’s Christmas morning again, how convenient again. It’s raining outside, not soft gentle rain. It’s a hard storm, the one that pelts on windows and thunders the sky. It is a dark storm, strong like the night, like the dead of winter, like love born out of two lost souls that find each other, and tomorrow it will bring the brightest bluest sky, like Miranda’s eyes after Andrea makes her laugh.


	33. The day after :

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback of what the day after they forgave each other in a Paris cafe looked like ...   
> .  
> what other type of follow ups would you like to see?

The day after was always as confusing as the first meeting. It was full of anticipation and fear. What if Miranda realized what this all meant, what if she saw the scars that marred her once pristine expanse of abdomen. What is Andrea didn’t want to take the risk. What is she saw her deglamorized version and felt disappointment ?  
The what if’s invaded both women for a few moments as they sunk in the rays of sun streaming through the window and the beauty of the moment. Brief, scary moments before they realized none of those scenarios was possible. They had been through it all, and here they were. Andrea was the first to smile, brown eyes sparkling the Parisian morning, she realized that the woman besides her, the woman wrapped in her sheets and mussed hair would never judge her scars or leave her. Miranda mirrored her smile, and brown reflected on beautiful blue. Miranda knew that that Andrea would risk the world for her, she knew that the younger woman was her true love. 

“Coffee?” the brunette asked. They both were lying side by side, facing each other, heads on pillows, sheets wrapped on naked bodies.  
“After I sit here a few moments with you,” Miranda answered huskily.  
Andrea smiled, it was the kind of smile that explained every single feeling she had for the older woman, gentle and warm, hopeful and dreamy, complacent and brave. It was rays of sunshine that settled over both of them. No words were really necessary not after that smile, of their matching looks, it wasn’t’ necessary after their bodies touched the night before but nevertheless, Miranda whispered into the bright light, “I love you, oh so much.”  
It was breathless, meant to conceive everything Miranda ever felt.   
Andrea nodded and closed her eyes as the editor contoured her face, “I loved you first.”

They flew home two weeks later after they strolled Champs Elyse’s hand in hand, wearing Adidas shoes and plain jeans to blend in with the crowds and the tourists. They took the boat tour of the Seine, the one where the guide explains how Notre Dame started, and the first- time tourists take pictures like they will never see Paris again. Silly them, don’t they know Paris stays with you forever. It penetrates your heart, your soul. It becomes part of your story, of your soul. It is everything you know placed in the back of your mind. One always comes back to Paris.  
Then the guide tells you to look at the Eiffel Tower as it shimmers and sparkles in the French night, and it is that moment that you knew Paris was love. It didn’t matter how many times you had seen the Iron Lady, seeing it wrapped in the arms of someone you loved was just as beautiful as the first time.   
They ate buttered croissants near the first Arrondisement, and near the 16th. They drank champagne from the top floor of the Eiffel Tower and from a corner café in the Latin Quarter and then they had one last espresso at the Paul shop inside Charles de Gaulle. Anticipation and complete assurance mingled between them as they boarded the private plane back home.

Miranda had made Andrea promise she’d come home with her. Home to the townhome and the twins the life they had left pending. Andrea had agreed, with the simple condition that there would be no formal announcement of them. No, articles, no interviews, no answers to questions. Miranda agreed, Miranda would have agreed to handing her whole fortune over if it meant she could keep the young brunette resting on her shoulder.   
Andrea slept most of the flight, her soft brown curls resting between Miranda’s clavicle and her chest. The brunette’s breathing was soft and calm and it soothed Miranda. In their relationship Andrea had seemed to be the strong one, the one unafraid to tell the press, the one unafraid to face her parents, unafraid to take the first step, unafraid to sacrifice herself for the famous editor. The irony was that here thousands of miles from the ground Andrea was soft and fragile, sleeping on Miranda’s shoulder. Here Miranda was the strong one, the one who flew across the ocean to bring the love of her life home. Here Miranda was the one unafraid of the consequences, the one who had presumed enough to buy rings. Miranda didn’t sleep the whole flight home and when the twins ran across the tarmac to meet their mother and their mother’s new partner Miranda was also the strong one. Andrea couldn’t stop the tears as she hugged the young girls and realized what this all meant.   
The press would say Miranda was the strong one, always shielding her younger lover from the reporters, the flashes, the mobs. They would see the Ice Queen scold her features, and follow her bodyguards who formed circles over the two women as they crossed major events. They would see the way Miranda help Andrea’s hand, the way she walked slightly slower because her lover had a cane, they would say she was the strong one.   
The twins and close friends would say it was Andrea the one that held the editor together, in the first year, when the press called her every disgusting name in the book, when they highlighted their age difference and made it seem like a horrid transaction Andrea was the one holding a whisky glass for her older lover, a smile and words to make her laugh the stress away. It was Andrea who would force the editor to go to every gala, every board meeting, every event, to hold her head high, to take the twins and to hold her hand. It was Andrea who whispered, “I love you, and twenty years from now when they realize we are true love, we’ll have the last laugh.”

The truth was that first year defined that there was no strong one. There was no clear division of power, they were one, and the same. And that was what made them so perfect for each other. They were ying and yang, red and blue, they were primary colors, chocolate and wine, Tiffany and Cartier and they complemented each other. And that was that.


End file.
